DAVID (_getting lower and lower_). It's gey interesting, philosophy, John, an' the only philosophy worth thinkin' about is the philosophy of growing old--because that's what we're a' doing, a' living things. There's nae philosophy in a stane, John; he's juist a stane, an' in a hundred years he'll be juist a stane still--unless he's broken up, an' then he'll be juist not a stane, but he'll no' ken what's happened to him, because he didna break up gradual and first lose his boat an' then his hoose, an' then hae his wee grandson taken away when he was for tellin' him a bit story before he gangs tae his bed.--It's yon losing yer grip bit by bit and kennin' that yer losin' it that makes a philosopher, John. JOHN. If I kennt what ye meant by philosophy, feyther, I'd be better able to follow ye. (LIZZIE _enters quietly and closes door after her._) JOHN. Is he asleep? LIZZIE. No, he's no' asleep, but I've shut both doors, and the neighbors canna hear him. JOHN. Aw, Lizzie-- LIZZIE (_sharply_). John-- DAVID. Whit was I tellin' ye, John, about weans gettin' their ain way if the neighbors had ears an' they lived close? Was I no' richt? LIZZIE (_answering for JOHN with some acerbity_). Aye, ye were richt, feyther, nae doot; but we dinna live that close here, an' the neighbors canna hear him at the back o' the hoose. DAVID. Mebbe that's why ye changed Alexander into the parlor an' gied me the bed in here when it began to get cold--- LIZZIE (_hurt_). Aw, no, feyther; I brought ye in here to be warmer-- DAVID (_placably_). I believe ye, wumman--(_with a faint twinkle_)--but it's turned oot luckily, has it no'? (_DAVID waits for a reply but gets none. LIZZIE fetches needlework from the dresser drawer and sits above table. DAVID'S face and voice take on a more thoughtful tone._) DAVID (_musing_). Puir wee man! If he was in here you'd no' be letting him greet his heart oot where onybody could hear him. Wud ye? LIZZIE (_calmly_). Mebbe I'd no'. JOHN. Ye ken fine ye'd no', wumman. LIZZIE. John, thread my needle an' dinna take feyther's part against me. JOHN (_surprised_). I'm no'. LIZZIE. No, I ken ye're no meanin' to, but you men are that thrang-- (_She is interrupted by a loud squall from_ DAVID, _which he maintains, eyes shut, chair-arms gripped, and mouth open, for nearly half a minute, before he cuts it off abruptly and looks at the startled couple at the table._) LIZZIE. Mercy, feyther, whit's wrang wi' ye? DAVID (_collectedly_). There's naethin' wrang wi' me, Lizzie, except that I'm wantin' to tell wee Alexander a bit story-- LIZZIE (_firmly but very kindly_). But ye're no' goin' to-- (_She breaks off in alarm as her father opens his mouth preparatory to another yell, which however he postpones to speak to_ JOHN.) DAVID. Ye mind whit I was saying aboot the dispensation o' Providence to help weans till they could try for theirselves, John? JOHN. Aye.