“I’m exerceesed i’ my min’,” he said, as soon as they were clear of the stragglers, “aboot the turn things hae taen, doon-by at the Barn.” “They tell me there’s some gey queer customers taen to haudin’ furth,” returned Malcolm. “It’s a fac’,” answered Peter. “The fowk’ll hardly hear a word noo frae ony o’ the aulder an’ soberer Christi-ans. They haena the gift o’ the Speerit, they say. But in place o’ steerin’ them up to tak haud upo’ their Maker, thir new lichts set them up to luik doon upo’ ither fowk, propheseein’ an’ denuncin’, as gien the Lord had committit jeedgment into their han’s.” “What is ’t they tak haud o’ to misca’ them for?” asked Malcolm. “It’s no sae muckle,” answered Peter, “for onything they du, as for what they believe or dinna believe. There’s an ’uman frae Clamrock was o’ their pairty the nicht. She stude up an’ spak weel, an’ weel oot, but no to muckle profit, as ’t seemed to me; only I’m maybe no a fair jeedge, for I cudna be rid o’ the notion ’at she was lattin’ at mysel’ a’ the time. I dinna ken what for. An’ I cudna help wonnerin’ gien she kent what fowk used to say aboot hersel’ whan she was a lass; for gien the sma’ half o’ that was true, a body micht think the new grace gien her wad hae driven her to hide her heid, i’ place o’ exaltin’ her horn on high. But maybe it was a’ lees--she kens best hersel’.” “There canna be muckle worship gaein’ on wi’ ye by this time, than, I’m thinkin’,” said Malcolm. “I dinna like to say ’t,” returned Joseph; “but there’s a speerit o’ speeritooal pride abroad amang ’s, it seems to me, ’at’s no fawvourable to devotion. They hae taen ’t intill their heids, for ae thing--an that’s what Dilse’s Bess lays on at--’at ’cause they’re fisher-fowk, they hae a speecial mission to convert the warl’.” “What foon’ they that upo’?” asked Malcolm. “Ow, what the Saviour said to Peter an’ the lave o’ them ’at was fishers--to come to him, an’ he would mak them fishers o’ men.” “Ay, I see!--What for dinna ye bide at hame, you an’ the lave o’ the douce anes?” “There ye come upo’ the thing ’at’s troublin’ me.--Are we ’at begude it to brak it up?--Or are we to stan’ aside an’ lat it a’ gang to dirt an’ green bree?--Or are we to bide wi’ them, an warsle aboot holy words till we tyne a’ stamach for holy things?” “Cud ye brak it up gien ye tried?” asked Malcolm. “I doobt no. That’s ane o’ the considerations ’at hings some sair upo’ me: see what we hae dune!” “What for dinna ye gang ower to Maister Graham, an’ speir what he thinks?” “What for sud I gang till him? What’s _he_ but a fine moaral man? I never h’ard ’at he had ony discernment o’ the min’ o’ the speerit.” “That’s what Dilse’s Bess frae Clamrock wad say aboot yersel’, Peter.” “An’ I doobt she wadna be far wrang.”