“Hoot awa, wuman! dinna tak on like that,” returned her husband. “The laddie’s like the lave o’ laddies! They’re a’ jist like pup-doggies till their een comes oppen, and they ken them ’at broucht them here. He’s bun’ to mak a guid man in time, and he canna dee that ohn learnt to be a guid son to her ’at bore him!—Ye canna say ’at ever he contert ye! Ye hae tellt me that a hunner times!” “I have that! But I would hae had no occasion to dwall upo’ the fac’, gien he had ever gi’en me, noo or than, jist a wee bit sign o’ ony affection!” “Ay, doobtless! but signs are nae preefs! The affection, as ye ca’ ’t, may be there, and the signs o’ ’t wantin!—But I ken weel hoo the hert o’ ye ’s workin, my ain auld dautie!” he added, anxious to comfort her who was dearer to him than son or daughter. “I dinna think it wad be weel,” he resumed after a pause, “for me to say onything til ’im aboot his behaviour til ’s mither: I dinna believe he wud ken what I was aimin at! I dinna believe he has a notion o’ onything amiss in himsel, and I fear he wad only think I was hard upon him, and no’ fair. Ye see, gien a thing disna come o’ ’tsel, no cryin upo’ ’t ’ll gar ’t lift its heid—sae lang, at least, as the man kens naething aboot it!” “I dinna doobt ye’re right, Peter,” answered his wife; “I ken weel that flytin ’ill never gar love spread oot his wings—excep’ it be to flee awa’! Naething but shuin can come o’ flytin!” “It micht be even waur nor shuin!” rejoined Peter. “—But we better gang til oor sleeps, lass!—We hae ane anither, come what may!” “That’s true, Peter; but aye the mair I hae you, the mair I want my Jeemie!” cried the poor mother. The father said no more. But, after a while, he rose, and stole softly to his son’s room. His wife stole after him, and found him on his knees by the bedside, his face buried in the blankets, where his boy lay asleep with calm, dreamless countenance. She took his hand, and led him back to bed. “To think,” she moaned as they went, “’at yon’s the same bairnie I glowert at till my sowl ran oot at my een! I min’ weel hoo I leuch and grat, baith at ance, to think I was the mother o’ a man-child! and I thought I kenned weel what was i’ the hert o’ Mary, whan she claspit the blessed ane til her boasom!” “May that same bairnie, born for oor remeid, bring oor bairn til his richt min’ afore he’s ower auld to repent!” responded the father in a broken voice. “What for,” moaned Marion, “was the hert o’ a mither put intil me? What for was I made a wuman, whause life is for the beirin o’ bairns to the great Father o’ a’ gien this same was to be my reward?—Na, na, Lord,” she went on, checking herself, “I claim naething but thy wull; and weel I ken ye wouldna hae me think siclike thy wull!” CHAPTER XV