“Think ye she ever tauld onybody?” “Mony ane, I doobtna.” “Weel, I dinna believe ’t. I hae nae fear but she’s been dumb as deith!” “Hoo ken ye that?—What for said she never ae word aboot ye til yer ain mither?” “’Cause she was set on haudin her tongue. Was she to bring an owre true tale o’ me to the vera hoose I was born in? As lang as I haud til my tongue, she’ll never wag hers!—Eh, but she’s a true ane! _She’s_ ane to lippen til!” “Weel, I alloo, she’s deen as a wuman sud—the faut bein a’ her ain!” “The faut bein’ a’ mine, mother, she wouldna tell what would disgrace me!” “She micht hae kenned her secret would be safe wi’ me!” “_I_ micht hae said the same, but for the w’y ye spak o’ her this vera meenut!—Whaur is she, mother? Whaur’s Isy?” “’Deed, she’s made a munelicht flittin o’ ’t!” “I telled ye she would never tell upo me!—Hed she ony siller?” “Hoo can _I_ tell?” “Did ye pey her ony wages?” “She gae me no time!—But she’s no likly to tell noo; for, hearin her tale, wha wad tak her in?” “Eh, mother, but ye _are_ hard-hertit!” “I ken a harder, Jamie!” “That’s me!—and ye’re richt, mother! But, eh, gien ye wad hae me loe ye frae this meenut to the end o’ my days, be but a wee fair to Isy: _I_ hae been a damnt scoon’rel til her!” “Jamie; Jamie! ye’re provokin the Lord to anger—sweirin like that in his vera face—and you a minister!” “I provokit him a heap waur whan I left Isy to dree her shame! Divna ye min’ hoo the apostle Peter cursed, whan he said to Simon, ‘Gang to hell wi’ yer siller!’” “She’s telt the soutar, onygait!” “What! has _he_ gotten a haud o’ her?” “Ay, has he!—And dinna ye think it’ll be a’ ower the toon lang or this!” “And hoo will ye meet it, mother?” “We maun tell yer father, and get him to quaiet the soutar!—For _her_, we maun jist stap her mou wi’ a bunch o’ bank-notts!” “That wad jist mak it ’maist impossible for even her to forgie you or me aither ony langer!” “And wha’s she to speyk o’ forgivin!” The door opened, and Peter entered. He strode up to his wife, and stood over her like an angel of vengeance. His very lips were white with wrath. “Efter thirty years o’ merried life, noo first to ken the wife o’ my boasom for a messenger o’ Sawtan!” he panted. “Gang oot o’ my sicht, wuman!” She fell on her knees, and held up her two hands to him. “Think o’ Jamie, Peter!” she pleaded. “I wad tyne my sowl for Jamie!”