“God knows how I wish I had keepit a haud o’ mysel! Syne I micht hae steppit oot o’ the dirt o’ my hypocrisy, i’stead o’ gaein ower the heid intil’t! I was aye a hypocrite, but she would maybe hae fun’ me oot, and garred me luik at mysel!” He did not know the probability that, if he had not fallen, he would have but sunk the deeper in the worst bog of all, self-satisfaction, and none the less have played her false, and left her to break her heart. If any reader of this tale should argue it better then to do wrong and repent, than to resist the devil, I warn him, that in such case he will not repent until the sorrows of death and the pains of hell itself lay hold upon him. An overtaking fault may be beaten with few stripes, but a wilful wrong shall be beaten with many stripes. The door of the latter must share, not with Judas, for he did repent, although too late, but with such as have taken from themselves the power of repentance. “Was there no mark left o’ her disgrace?” asked his mother. “Wasna there a bairn to mak it manifest?” “Nane I ever heard tell o’.” “In that case she’s no muckle the waur, and ye needna gang lamentin: _she_ ’ll no be the ane to tell! and _ye_ maunna, for her sake! Sae tak ye comfort ower what’s gane and dune wi’, and canna come back, and maunna happen again.—Eh, but it’s a’ God’s mercy there was nae bairn!” Thus had the mother herself become an evil councillor, crying Peace! peace! when there was no peace, and tempting her son to go on and become a devil! But one thing yet rose up for the truth in his miserable heart—his reviving and growing love for Isy. It had seemed smothered in selfishness, but was alive and operative: God knows how—perhaps through feverish, incoherent, forgotten dreams. He had expected his mother to aid his repentance, and uphold his walk in the way of righteousness, even should the way be that of social disgrace. He knew well that reparation must go hand in hand with repentance where the All-wise was judge, and selfish Society dared not urge one despicable pretence for painting hidden shame in the hues of honour. James had been the cowering slave of a false reputation; but his illness and the assaults of his conscience had roused him, set repentance before him, brought confession within sight, and purity within reach of prayer. “I maun gang til her,” he cried, “the meenute I’m able to be up!—Whaur is she, mother?” “Upo nae accoont see her, Jamie! It wad be but to fa’ again intil her snare!” answered his mother, with decision in her look and tone. “We’re to abstain frae a’ appearance o’ evil—as ye ken better nor I can tell ye.” “But Isy’s no an appearance o’ evil, mother!” “Ye say weel there, I confess! Na, she’s no an appearance; she’s the vera thing! Haud frae her, as ye wad frae the ill ane himsel.” “Did she never lat on what there had been atween ’s?” “Na, never. She kenned weel what would come o’ that!” “What, mother?” “The ootside o’ the door.”