(BRODIE has fallen into a chair, with his face upon the table. Enter MARY, by the side door pushing her father’s chair. She is supposed to have advanced far enough for stage purposes before BRODIE is aware of her. He starts up, and runs to her.) BRODIE. Look up, my lass, look up, and be a woman! I . . . O kiss me, Mary I give me a kiss for my good news. MARY. Good news, Will? Is it changed? BRODIE. Changed? Why, the world’s a different colour! It was night, and now it’s broad day and I trust myself again. You must wait, dear, wait, and I must work and work; and before the week is out, as sure as God sees me, I’ll have made you happy. O you may think me broken, hounds, but the Deacon’s not the man to be run down; trust him, he shall turn a corner yet, and leave you snarling! And you, Poll, you. I’ve done nothing for you yet; but, please God, I’ll make your life a life of gold; and wherever I am, I’ll have a part in your happiness, and you’ll know it, by heaven! and bless me. MARY. O Willie, look at him; I think he hears you, and is trying to be glad with us. BRODIE. My son—Deacon—better man than I was. BRODIE. O for God’s sake, hear him! MARY. He is quite happy, Will, and so am I . . . so am I. BRODIE. Hear me, Mary. This is a big moment in our two lives. I swear to you by the father here between us that it shall not be fault of mine if this thing fails; if this ship founders you have set your hopes in. I swear it by our father; I swear it by God’s judgments. MARY. I want no oaths, Will. BRODIE. No, but I do. And prayers, Mary, prayers. Pray night and day upon your knees. I must move mountains. OLD BRODIE. A wise son maketh—maketh— BRODIE. A glad father? And does your son, the Deacon, make you glad? O heaven of heavens, if I were a good man. * * * * * ACT-DROP ACT III. TABLEAU V. KING’S EVIDENCE _The Stage represents a public place in Edinburgh_. SCENE I JEAN, SMITH, _and_ MOORE (_They loiter in L._, _and stand looking about as for somebody not there_. SMITH _is hat in hand to_ JEAN; MOORE _as usual_.) MOORE. Wot did I tell you? Is he ’ere, or ain’t he? Now, then. Slink by name and Slink by nature, that’s wot’s the matter with him. JEAN. He’ll no be lang; he’s regular enough, if that was a’. MOORE. I’d regular him; I’d break his back. SMITH. Badger, you brute, you hang on to the lessons of your dancing-master. None but the genteel deserves the fair; does they, Duchess? MOORE. O rot! Did I insult the blowen? Wot’s the matter with me is Slink Ainslie. SMITH. All right, old Crossed-in-love. Give him forty winks, and he’ll turn up as fresh as clean sawdust and as respectable as a new Bible.