“No, Mappy,” answered the master; “he was a fine chield, as you say; but he nott (_needed_) mair time and gentler treatment to mak onything o’ him. Ye see he had a guid hert, but was a duller kin’ o’ cratur a’thegither, and cared for naething he could na see or hanle. He never thoucht muckle aboot God at a’. Jacob was anither sort--a poet kin’ o’ a man, but a sneck-drawin’ cratur for a’ that. It was easier, hooever, to get the slyness oot o’ Jacob, than the dulness oot o’ Esau. Punishment tellt upo’ Jacob like upon a thin-skinned horse, whauras Esau was mair like the minister’s powny, that can hardly be made to unnerstan’ that ye want him to gang on. But o’ the ither han’, dullness is a thing that can be borne wi’: there’s nay hurry aboot that; but the deceitfu’ tricks o’ Jacob war na to be endured, and sae the tawse (_leather-strap_) cam doon upo’ _him_.” “An’ what for didna God mak Esau as clever as Jacob?” asked a wizened-faced boy near the top of the class. “Ah, my Peery!” said Mr Graham, “I canna tell ye that. A’ that I can tell is, that God hadna dune makin’ at him, an’ some kin’ o’ fowk tak langer to mak oot than ithers. An’ ye canna tell what they’re to be till they’re made oot. But whether what I tell ye be richt or no, God maun hae the verra best o’ rizzons for ’t, ower guid maybe for us to unnerstan’---the best o’ rizzons for Esau himsel’, I mean, for the Creator luiks efter his cratur first ava’ (_of all_). --And now,” concluded Mr Graham, resuming his English, “go to your lessons; and be diligent, that God may think it worth while to get on faster with the making of you.” In a moment the class was dispersed and all were seated. In another, the sound of scuffling arose, and fists were seen storming across a desk. “Andrew Jamieson and Poochy, come up here,” said the master in a loud voice. “_He_ hittit me first,” cried Andrew, the moment they were within a respectful distance of the master, whereupon Mr Graham turned to the other with inquiry in his eyes. “He had nae business to ca’ me Poochy.” “No more he had; but you had just as little right to punish him for it. The offence was against me: he had no right to use my name for you, and the quarrel was mine. For the present you are Poochy no more: go to your place, William Wilson.” The boy burst out sobbing, and crept back to his seat with his knuckles in his eyes. “Andrew Jamieson,” the master went on, “I had almost got a name for you, but you have sent it away. You are not ready for it yet, I see. Go to your place.” With downcast looks Andrew followed William, and the watchful eyes of the master saw that, instead of quarrelling any more during the day, they seemed to catch at every opportunity of showing each other a kindness.