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Updated: June 18, 2025
Do 'at he like, Beauchamp's dirk couldna hurt ye sae muckle as yer ain han', whan ye liftit the first glass to yer ain mou' the nicht. Ye hae despised a' my warnings. And sorrow and shame'll come o' 't. And I'll hae to beir a' the wyte o' 't. Yer mither'll jist hate me like the verra black taed that no woman can bide. Gang awa' to yer bed. I canna bide the sicht o' ye."
Dey put flowers in cups an' vases on de grave, so's dey wouldn' wilt. "Us was all sorry when Old Marster died, I cried 'cause I said, 'Now us won' git no more candy. He used to bring us candy whan he went to town. Us'd be lookin' for 'im when he come home. He'd say, 'Whars all my little Niggers? Den us'd come a-runnin' an' he'd han' it to us out-a his saddle bags. It was mos'ly good stick candy.
But my father's sure to gie him fair play! he gies a' body fair play." Agnes set out, and Cosmo fell asleep. He slept a long time, and woke better. She hurried to Glenwarlock, and in the yard found the laird. "Weel, lassie!" he said, "what brings ye here this time o' day? What for are ye no at the school? Ye'll hae little eneuch o' 't by an' by, whan the hairst 's come."
'I was mysel' dreidfu' miserable for a while, Robert resumed, 'for I cudna see or hear God at a'; but God heard me, and loot me ken that he was there an' that a' was richt. It was jist like whan a bairnie waukens up an' cries oot, thinkin' it 's its lane, an' through the mirk comes the word o' the mither o' 't, sayin', "I'm here, cratur: dinna greit."
Ye want nothing but fair play, my son, an' whether ye get it frae Lick-my-loof or no, there's ane winna haud it frae ye. Ye 's get it, my son; ye 's get it! The maister 'll hae a' thing set richt at the lang last; an' gien HE binna in a hurry, we may weel bide. For mysel', the man has smitten me upo' the tae cheek, an' may hae the tither to lat drive at whan he likes.
'I thocht that was a'! he said with some satisfaction. 'I kent the string whan I heard it. But we'll sune get a new thairm till her, he added, in a tone of sorrowful commiseration and condolence, as he took the violin from the case, tenderly as if it had been a hurt child. One touch of the bow, drawing out a goul of grief, satisfied him that she was uninjured.
"Pray to God aboot an auld meal-mull?" said Simon with indignation. "'Deed, I winna be sae ill-bred." And so saying, he turned and went home, leaving Thomas muttering "Gin a body wad pray aboot onything, they micht, maybe, tak' a likin' till 't. A prayer may do a body guid whan it's no jist o' the kin' to be a'thegither acceptable to the min' o' the Almichty.
The gas ud throttle him, Miss, afore he felt the fire." "Is there a wife?" "Noa he coom here a widower three weeks sen there's a little gell " "Aye! they be gone for her an t' passon boath," said another voice; "what's passon to do whan he cooms?" "Salve the masters' consciences!" cried a third in fury. "They'll burn us to hell first, and then quieten us with praying."
"'Deed, sir, it may ha' been you, or it may ha' been me 'at frichtit him," rejoined the soutar. "It's a thing I'm sair to blame in that, whan I'm in richt earnest, I'm aye ready to speyk as gien I was angert. Sir, I humbly beg yer pardon." "As humbly I beg yours," returned the parson; "I was in the wrong." The heart of the old man was drawn afresh to the youth.
"I thank ye frae mine," answered Malcolm, and again they shook hands. "But eh, Ma'colm, my man!" he added, "hoo will I ever shaw my face again?" "Fine that!" returned Malcolm, eagerly. "Fowk's terrible guid-natur'd whan ye alloo 'at ye're 'i the wrang. I do believe 'at whan a man confesses till 's neebor an' says he's sorry, he thinks mair o' 'im nor afore he did it.
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