"Jamie, dear," she cried, laying her cheek to his, "ye maun cast yer care
upo' Him that careth for ye! He kens ye hae dene yer best--or if no yer
vera best--for wha daur say that?--ye hae at least dene what ye could!"
"Na, na!" he answered, resuming the speech of his boyhood--a far better
sign of him than his mother understood, "I ken ower muckle, and that muckle
ower weel, to lay sic a flattering unction to my sowl! It's jist as black
as the fell mirk! 'Ah, limed soul, that, struggling to be free, art more
engaged!'"
"Hoots, ye're dreamin, laddie! Ye never was engaged to onybody--at least
that ever I h'ard tell o'! But, ony gait, fash na ye aboot that! Gien it be
onything o' sic a natur that's troublin ye, yer father and me we s' get ye
clear o' 't!"
"Ay, there ye're at it again! It was _you_ 'at laid the bird-lime! Ye aye
tuik pairt, mither, wi' the muckle deil that wad na rist till he had my
sowl in his deepest pit!"
"The Lord kens his ain: he'll see that they come throuw unscaumit!"
"The Lord disna mak ony hypocreet o' purpose doobtless; but gien a man sin
efter he has ance come to the knowledge o' the trowth, there remaineth for
him--ye ken the lave o' 't as weel as I dee mysel, mother! My only houp
lies in a doobt--a doobt, that is, whether I _had_ ever come til a
knowledge o' the trowth--or hae yet!--Maybe no!"
"Laddie, ye're no i' yer richt min'.
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