“I’m content ’at she’s a frien o’ yours, sir. I ken weel ye wad never hae me tak intil my hoose ane that was na fit—and a’ the lads aboot the place frae ae mornin til anither!” “Indeed she _is_ a frien o’ mine, mem; and I hae never a dreid o’ onything happenin ye wadna like. She’s in ower sair trouble to cause ony anxiety. The fac’ is, she’s had a terrible misfortun!” The good woman started, drew herself up a little, and said hurriedly, “There’s no a wean, is there?” “’Deed is there, mem!—but pairt o’ the meesery is, the bairn’s disappeart; and she’s brackin her heart aboot ’im. She’s maist oot o’ her min’, mem! No that she’s onything but perfecly reasonable, and gies never a grain o’ trouble! I canna doobt she’d be a great help til ye, and that ilka minute ye saw fit to lat her bide. But she’s jist huntit wi’ the idea that she pat the bairnie doon, and left him, and kens na whaur.—Verily, mem, she’s ane o’ the lambs o’ the Lord’s ain flock!” “That’s no the w’y the lambs o’ _his_ flock are i’ the w’y o’ behavin themsels!—I fear me, sir, ye’re lattin yer heart rin awa wi’ yer jeedgment!” “I hae aye coontit Mary Magdalen ane o’ the Lord’s ain yowies, that he left the lave i’ the wilderness to luik for: this is sic anither! Gien ye help Him to come upon her, ye’ll cairry her hame ’atween ye rej’icin! And ye min’ hoo he stude ’atween ane far waur nor her, and the ill men that would fain hae shamet her, and sent them oot like sae mony tykes—thae gran’ Pharisees—wi their tails tuckit in ’atween their legs!—Sair affrontit they war, doobtless!—But I maun be gaein, mem, for we’re no vera like to agree! My Maister’s no o’ ae min’ wi’ you, mem, aboot sic affairs—and sae I maun gang, and lea’ ye to yer ain opingon! But I would jist remin’ ye, mem, that she’s at this present i’ _my_ hoose, wi my wife; and my wee bit lassie hings aboot her as gien she was an angel come doon to see the bonny place this warl luks frae up there.—Eh, puir lammie, the stanes oucht to be feower upo thae hill-sides!” “What for that, Maister Robertson?” “’Cause there’s so mony o’ them whaur human herts oucht to be.—Come awa, doggie!” he added, rising. “Dear me, sir! haena ye hae a grain o’ patience to waur (_spend_) upon a puir menseless body?” cried Marion, wringing her hands in dismay. “To think _I_ sud be nice whaur my Lord was sae free!” “Ay,” returned the minister, “and he was jist as clean as ever, wi’ mony ane siclike as her inside the heart o’ him!—_Gang awa, and dinna dee the like again_, was a’ he said to that ane!—and ye may weel be sure she never did! And noo she and Mary are followin, wi’ yer ain Isy, i’ the vera futsteps o’ the great shepherd, throuw the gowany leys o’ the New Jerus’lem—whaur it may be they ca’ her Isy yet, as they ca’ this ane I hae to gang hame til.”