“O’ his glory, as they consider glory—ay; efter a warldly fashion that’s no better nor pride, an’ in him would only be a greater pride. But his glory! consistin’ in his trowth an’ lovin’kindness—(man! that’s a bonny word)—an’ grand self-forgettin’ devotion to his creaters—lord! man, it’s unspeakable. I care little for his glory either, gin by that ye mean the praise o’ men. A heap o’ the anxiety for the spread o’ his glory, seems to me to be but a desire for the sempathy o’ ither fowk. There’s no fear but men ‘ll praise him, a’ in guid time—that is, whan they can. But, Mr. Sutherlan’, for the glory o’ God, raither than, if it were possible, one jot or one tittle should fail of his entire perfection of holy beauty, I call God to witness, I would gladly go to hell itsel’; for no evil worth the full name can befall the earth or ony creater in’t, as long as God is what he is. For the glory o’ God, Mr. Sutherlan’, I wad die the deith. For the will o’ God, I’m ready for onything he likes. I canna surely be in muckle danger o’ lichtlyin’ him. I glory in my God.” The almost passionate earnestness with which David spoke, would alone have made it impossible for Hugh to reply at once. After a few moments, however, he ventured to ask the question: “Would you do nothing that other people should know God, then, David?” “Onything ‘at he likes. But I would tak’ tent o’ interferin’. He’s at it himsel’ frae mornin’ to nicht, frae year’s en’ to year’s en’.” “But you seem to me to make out that God is nothing but love!” “Ay, naething but love. What for no?” “Because we are told he is just.” “Would he be lang just if he didna lo’e us?” “But does he not punish sin?” “Would it be ony kin’ness no to punish sin? No to us a’ means to pit awa’ the ae ill thing frae us? Whatever may be meant by the place o’ meesery, depen’ upo’t, Mr. Sutherlan’, it’s only anither form o’ love, love shinin’ through the fogs o’ ill, an’ sae gart leuk something verra different thereby. Man, raither nor see my Maggy—an’ ye’ll no doot ‘at I lo’e her—raither nor see my Maggy do an ill thing, I’d see her lyin’ deid at my feet. But supposin’ the ill thing ance dune, it’s no at my feet I wad lay her, but upo’ my heart, wi’ my auld arms aboot her, to hand the further ill aff o’ her. An’ shall mortal man be more just than God? Shall a man be more pure than his Maker? O my God! my God!”