“And now,” continued her son, “ye hae brought the leddy hersell on our hands!--An I could but hae gotten some decent claes in, I wad hae spanged out o’ bed, and tauld her I wad ride where she liked, night or day, an she wad but leave us the free house and the yaird, that grew the best early kale in the haill country, and the cow’s grass.” “O wow! my winsome bairn, Cuddie,” continued the old dame, “murmur not at the dispensation; never grudge suffering in the gude cause.” “But what ken I if the cause is gude or no, mither,” rejoined Cuddie, “for a’ ye bleeze out sae muckle doctrine about it? It’s clean beyond my comprehension a’thegither. I see nae sae muckle difference atween the twa ways o’t as a’ the folk pretend. It’s very true the curates read aye the same words ower again; and if they be right words, what for no? A gude tale’s no the waur o’ being twice tauld, I trow; and a body has aye the better chance to understand it. Every body’s no sae gleg at the uptake as ye are yoursell, mither.” “O, my dear Cuddie, this is the sairest distress of a’,” said the anxious mother--“O, how aften have I shown ye the difference between a pure evangelical doctrine, and ane that’s corrupt wi’ human inventions? O, my bairn, if no for your ain saul’s sake, yet for my grey hairs”--“Weel, mither,” said Cuddie, interrupting her, “what need ye mak sae muckle din about it? I hae aye dune whate’er ye bade me, and gaed to kirk whare’er ye likit on the Sundays, and fended weel for ye in the ilka days besides. And that’s what vexes me mair than a’ the rest, when I think how I am to fend for ye now in thae brickle times. I am no clear if I can pleugh ony place but the Mains and Mucklewhame, at least I never tried ony other grund, and it wadna come natural to me. And nae neighbouring heritors will daur to take us, after being turned aff thae bounds for non-enormity.” “Non-conformity, hinnie,” sighed Mause, “is the name that thae warldly men gie us.” “Weel, aweel--we’ll hae to gang to a far country, maybe twall or fifteen miles aff. I could be a dragoon, nae doubt, for I can ride and play wi’ the broadsword a bit, but ye wad be roaring about your blessing and your grey hairs.” (Here Mause’s exclamations became extreme.) “Weel, weel, I but spoke o’t; besides, ye’re ower auld to be sitting cocked up on a baggage-waggon wi’ Eppie Dumblane, the corporal’s wife. Sae what’s to come o’ us I canna weel see--I doubt I’ll hae to tak the hills wi’ the wild whigs, as they ca’ them, and then it will be my lo to be shot down like a mawkin at some dikeside, or to be sent to heaven wi’ a Saint Johnstone’s tippit about my hause.”