I have said enough, perhaps too much, of this most uninteresting of men! How he came to be born such, is not for my speculation: had he remained such, his story would not have been for my telling. How he became something better, it remains my task to try to set forth. I now complete the talk that followed the return of the simple couple to bed. “I was jist thinkin, Peter,” said Marion, after they had again lain silent for a while, “o’ the last time we spak thegither aboot the laddie—it maun be nigh sax year sin syne, I’m thinkin!” “’Deed I canna say! ye may be richt, Mirran,” replied her spouse. “It’s no sic a cheery subjec’ ’at we sud hae muckle to say to ane anither anent it! He’s a man noo, and weel luikit upo’; but it maks unco little differ to his parents! He’s jist as dour as ever, and as far as man could weel be frae them he cam o’!—never a word to the ane or the ither o’ ’s! Gien we war twa dowgs, he couldna hae less to say til’s, and micht weel hae mair! I s’ warran’ Frostie says mair in ae half-hoor to his tyke, nor Jeemie has said to you or me sin’ first he gaed to the college!” “Bairns is whiles a queer kin’ o’ a blessin!” remarked the mother. “But, eh, Peter! it’s what may lie ahint the silence that frichts me!” “Lass, ye’re frichtin _me_ noo! What _div_ ye mean?” “Ow naething!” returned Marion, bursting into tears. “But a’ at ance it was borne in upo me, that there maun be something to accoont for the thing. At the same time I daurna speir at God himsel what that thing can be. For there’s something waur noo, and has been for some time, than ever was there afore! He has sic a luik, as gien he saw nor heard onything but ae thing, the whilk ae thing keeps on inside him, and winna wheesht. It’s an awfu’ thing to say o’ a mither’s ain laddie; and to hae said it only to my ain man, and the father o’ the laddie, maks my hert like to brak!—it’s as gien I had been fause to my ain flesh and blude but to think it o’ ’im!—Eh, Peter, what _can_ it be?” “Ow jist maybe naething ava’! Maybe he’s in love, and the lass winna hear til ’im!” “Na, Peter; love gars a man luik up, no doon at his ain feet! It gars him fling his heid back, and set his een richt afore him—no turn them in upo his ain inside! It maks a man straucht i’ the back, strong i’ the airm, and bauld i’ the hert.—Didna it you, Peter?” “Maybe it did; I dinna min’ vera weel.—But I see love can hardly be the thing that’s amiss wi’ the lad. Still, even his parents maun tak tent o’ jeedgin—specially ane o’ the Lord’s ministers—maybe ane o’ the Lord’s ain elec’!” “It’s awfu’ to think—I daurna say ’t—I daurna maist think the words o’ ’t, Peter, but it _wull_ cry oot i’ my vera hert!—Steik the door, Peter—and ticht, that no a stray stirk may hear me!—Was a minister o’ the gospel ever a heepocreete, Peter?—like ane o’ the auld scribes and Pharisees, Peter?—Wadna it be ower terrible, Peter, to be permittit?—Gien our ain only son was—”