‘Maybe the bonny man, as Steenie ca’s him,’ returned David, ‘may hae as muckle compassion for the puir thing i’ the hert o’ ’im as Steenie himsel!’ ‘Ow ay! Whatfor no! But what can the bonny man himsel du, a’ bein sattlet?’ ‘Dinna leemit the Almichty, wuman--and that i’ the verra moment whan he’s been to hiz--I wunna say mair gracious nor ord’nar, for that cudna be--but whan he’s latten us see a bit plainer nor common that he _is_ gracious! The Lord o’ mercy ’ill manage to luik efter the lammie he made, ae w’y or ither, there as here. Ye daurna say he didna du his best for her here, and wull he no du his best for her there as weel?’ ‘Doobtless, Dauvid! But ye fricht me! It souns jist rank papistry--naither mair nor less! What _can_ he du? He canna dee again for ane ’at wudna turn til ’im i’ this life! The thing’s no to be thoucht!’ ‘Hoo ken ye that, wuman? Ye hae jist thoucht it yersel! Gien I was you, I wudna daur to say what he cudna du! I’ the meantime, what he maks me able to houp, I’m no gaein to fling frae me!’ David was a true man: he could not believe a thing with one half of his mind, and care nothing about it with the other. He, like his Steenie, believed in the bonny man about in the world, not in the mere image of him standing in the precious shrine of the New Testament. After a brief silence-- ‘Whaur’s Kirsty and Steenie?’ he said. ‘The Lord kens; I dinna.’ ‘They’ll be safe eneuch.’ ‘It’s no likly.’ ‘It’s sartin,’ said David. And therewith, by the side of the dead, he imparted to his wife the thoughts that drove misery from his heart as he sat on his mare in the storm with the reins on her neck, nor knew whither she went. ‘Ay, ay,’ returned his wife after a pause, ‘ye’re unco richt, Dauvid, as aye ye are! And I’m jist conscience-stricken to think ’at a’ my life lang I hae been ready to murn ower the sorrow i’ _my_ hert, never thinkin o’ the glaidness i’ God’s! What call hed I to greit ower Steenie, whan God maun hae been aye sair pleased wi’ him! What sense is there in lamentation sae lang’s God’s eident settin richt a’! His hert’s the safity o’ oors. And eh, glaid sure he maun be, wi sic a lot o’ his bairns at hame aboot him!’ ‘Ay,’ returned David with a sigh, thinking of his old comrade and the son he had left behind him, ‘but there’s the prodigal anes!’ ‘Thank God, we hae nae prodigal!’ ‘Aye, thank him!’ rejoined David; ‘but _he_ has prodigals that trouble him sair, and we maun see til’t ’at we binna thankless auld prodigals oorsels!’ Again followed a brief silence. ‘Eh, but isna it strange?’ said Marion. ‘Here’s you and me stanin murnin ower anither man’s bairn, and naewise kennin what’s come o’ oor ain twa!--Dauvid, what can hae come o’ Steenie and Kirsty?’ ‘The wull o’ God’s what’s come o’ them; and God haud me i’ the grace o’ wussin naething ither nor that same!’ ‘Haud to that, Dauvid, and haud me till’t: we kenna what’s comin!’