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'I've a sair, sair hert. I've a sair hert i' my breist, O Lord! thoo knowest. My ain Anerew! To think o' my bairnie that I cairriet i' my ain body, that sookit my breists, and leuch i' my face to think o' 'im bein' a reprobate! O Lord! cudna he be eleckit yet? Is there nae turnin' o' thy decrees? Na, na; that wadna do at a'. But while there's life there's houp.
Their words therefore flowed freely into her ears, although the meaning only played on her mind with a dull glimmer like that which played on her wall from the fire in the room where they sat talking. "Ay, woman," began Andrew, "it'll be sair news, this, to the lady ower the watter." "Ye dinna mean Mistress Forbes, Anerew?" "'Deed I mean jist her." "Is't her son? Has he met wi' ony mischeef?
'I did a' for him that I kent hoo to do, said Mrs. Falconer, reflectingly. 'Nicht an' mornin' an' aften midday prayin' for an' wi' him. 'Maybe ye scunnert him at it, grannie. She gave a stifled cry of despair. 'Dinna say that, laddie, or ye'll drive me oot o' my min'. God forgie me, gin that be true. I deserve hell mair nor my Anerew.
My Anerew, my Anerew! I'm as happy 's a bairn. O Lord! O Lord! And she burst again into sobs, and entered paradise in radiant weeping. Her hands sank away from his head, and when her son gazed in her face he saw that she was dead. She had never looked at Robert. The two men turned towards each other. Robert put out his arms. His father laid his head on his bosom, and went on weeping.
'The Lord be praised! said Mrs. Falconer. 'I had guid houps o' 'im in 's latter days. And fowk says he's made a rich man o' ye, Robert? 'He's left me ilka thing, excep' something till 's servan's wha hae weel deserved it. 'Eh, Robert! but it's a terrible snare. Siller 's an awfu' thing. My puir Anerew never begud to gang the ill gait, till he began to hae ower muckle siller.
But wha kens whether he be alive or no? Naebody can tell. Glaidly wad I luik upon 's deid face gin I cud believe that his sowl wasna amang the lost. And my Anerew doon i' the hert o' 't cryin'! And me no able to win till him! O Lord! I canna say thy will be done. But dinna lay 't to my chairge; for gin ye was a mither yersel' ye wadna pit him there. O Lord! I'm verra ill-fashioned.
'Dinna ye ken a proverb whan ye hear 't? De'il hae ye! ye're as sharpset as a missionar'. I was only gaun to say that I'm doobtin' Andrew's deid. 'Ay! ay! commenced a chorus of questioning. 'Mhm! 'Aaay! 'What gars ye think that? 'And sae he's deid! 'He was a great favourite, Anerew! 'Whaur dee'd he? 'Aye some upsettin' though! 'Ay. He was aye to be somebody wi' his tale.
And noo, laddie, duv ye think there's ony likliheid that yer father 's still i' the body? I dream aboot him whiles sae lifelike that I canna believe him deid. 'Weel, grannie, I haena the least assurance. But I hae the mair houp. Wad ye ken him gin ye saw him? 'Ken him! she cried; 'I wad ken him gin he had been no to say four, but forty days i' the sepulchre! My ain Anerew!
But I wad like sair to ken wha sent hame the word o' 't." "I'm thinking it's been young Bruce." "The Lord be praised for a lee!" exclaimed Mrs Constable. "Haena I tell't ye afore noo, sae that it's no upmak to pick the lock o' the occasion, Anerew, that Rob Bruce has a spite at that faimily for takin' sic a heap o' notice o' Annie Annerson.
"Dinna fash yer heid aboot it, Anerew. There's a heep o' judgments atween this an' the hinner en'. The Lord'll come whan naebody's luikin' for him. And sae we maun be aye ready. Ilka year's an anno dominy. But I dinna think the man that made that calcleation as ye ca' 't 's jist a'thegeether infallible. An' for ae thing, he's forgotten to mak' allooance for the laip years."
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