Alec Forbes of Howglen

"That's hard to answer. But I s' gar him be honest wi' regaird to her, gin I can."

"Wad he chait?"

"Ay. Na. He wadna chait muckle. I wadna turn my back till him, though, ohn keekit ower my shouther to haud him sicker. He wadna min' doin' ill that gude micht come."

"Ay, ay; I ken him. -And the ill wad be whatever hurtit anither man, and the gude whatever furthered himsel?" said Mr Cupples as he dipped the last morsel of his third potato in the salt which he held in the palm of his left hand.

"Ye hae said it, Mr Cupples."

And therewith, Mr Cupples bade James good-night, and went to the hoose.

There he heard the happy news that Alec insisted on seeing him. Against her will, Mrs Forbes had given in, as the better alternative to vexing him. The result of the interview was, that Cupples sat up with him that night, and Mrs Forbes and Annie both slept. In the morning he found a bed ready for him, to which he reluctantly betook himself and slept for a couple of hours. The end of it was, that he did not go back to Mr Bruce's except to pay his bill. Nor did he leave Howglen for many weeks.

At length, one lovely morning, when the green corn lay soaking in the yellow sunlight, and the sky rose above the earth deep and pure and tender like the thought of God about it, Alec became suddenly aware that life was good, and the world beautiful. He tried to raise himself, but failed. Cupples was by his side in a moment. Alec held out his hand with his old smile so long disused. Cupples propped him up with pillows, and opened the window that the warm waves of the air might break into the cave where he had lain so long deaf to its noises and insensible to its influences. The tide flowed into his chamber like Pactolus, all golden with sunbeams. He lay with his hands before him and his eyes closed, looking so happy that Cupples gazed with reverent delight, for he thought he was praying. But he was only blessed. So easily can God make a man happy! The past had dropped from him like a wild but weary and sordid dream. He was reborn, a new child, in a new bright world, with a glowing summer to revel in. One of God's lyric prophets, the larks, was within earshot, pouring down a vocal summer of jubilant melody. The lark thought nobody was listening but his wife; but God heard in heaven, and the young prodigal heard on the earth. He would be a good child henceforth, for one bunch of sunrays was enough to be happy upon. His mother entered. She saw the beauty upon her boy's worn countenance; she saw the noble watching love on that of his friend; her own filled with light, and she stood transfixed and silent. Annie entered, gazed for a moment, fled to her own room, and burst into adoring tears. -For she had seen the face of God, and that face was Love -love like the human, only deeper, deeper -tenderer, lovelier, stronger. She could not recall what she had seen, or how she had known it; but the conviction remained that she had seen his face, and that it was infinitely beautiful.

"He has been wi' me a' the time, my God! He gied me my father, and sent Broonie to tak' care o' me, and Dooie, and Thomas Crann, and Mrs Forbes, and Alec. And he sent the cat whan I gaed till him aboot the rottans. An' he's been wi' me I kenna hoo lang, and he's wi' me noo. And I hae seen his face, and I'll see his face again. And I'll try sair to be a gude bairn. Eh me! It's jist wonnerfu! And God's jist….naething but God himsel'."

CHAPTER LXXX

Although Mr Cupples had been educated for the Church, and was indeed at this present time a licentiate, he had given up all thought of pursuing what had been his mother's ambition rather than his own choice. But his thoughts had not ceased to run in some of the old grooves, although a certain scepticism would sometimes set him examining those grooves to find out whether they had been made by the wheels of the gospel-chariot, or by those of Juggernaut in the disguise of a Hebrew high priest, drawn by a shouting Christian people. Indeed, as soon as he ceased to go to church, which was soon after ceasing to regard the priesthood as his future profession, he began to look at many things from points of view not exclusively ecclesiastical. So that, although he did go to church at Glamerton for several Sundays, the day arriving when he could not face it again, he did not scruple to set off for the hills. Coming home with a great grand purple foxglove in his hand, he met some of the missionars returning from their chapel, and amongst the rest Robert Bruce, who stopped and spoke.

"I'm surprised to see ye carryin' that thing o' the Lord's day, Mr

Cupples. Fowk'll think ill o' ye."

"Weel, ye see, Mr Bruce, it angert me sae to see the ill-faured thing positeevely growin' there upo' the Lord's day, that I pu'd it up 'maist by the reet. To think o' a weyd like that prankin' itsel' oot in its purple and its spots upo' the Sawbath day! It canna ken what it's aboot. I'm only feared I left eneuch o' 't to be up again afore lang."

"I doobt, Mr Cupples, ye haena come unner the pooer o' grace yet."

"A pour o' creysh (grease)! Na, thank ye. I dinna want to come unner a pour o' creysh. It wad blaud me a'thegither. Is that the gait ye baptize i' your conventicle?"

"There's nane sae deif's them 'at winna hear, Mr Cupples," said Bruce.

"I mean -ye're no convertit yet."

"Na. I'm no convertit. 'Deed no. I wadna like to be convertit. What wad ye convert me till? A swine? Or a sma' peddlin' crater that tak's a bawbee mair for rowin' up the pigtail in a foul paper? Ca' ye that conversion? I'll bide as I am."

"It's waste o' precious time speikin' to you, Mr Cupples," returned

Bruce, moving off with a red face.

"'Deed is't," retorted Cupples; "and I houp ye winna forget the fac'?

It's o' consequens to me."

But he had quite another word on the same subject for Annie Anderson, whom he overtook on her way to Howglen- she likewise returning from the missionar kirk.

"Isna that a bonnie ring o' deid man's bells, Annie?" said he, holding out the foxglove, and calling it by its name in that part of the country.

"Ay is't. But that was ower muckle a flooer to tak' to the kirk wi' ye.

Ye wad gar the fowk lauch."

"What's the richt flooer to tak' to the kirk, Annie?"

"Ow! sober floories that smell o' the yird (earth), like."

"Ay! ay! Sic like's what?" asked Cupples, for he had found in Annie a poetic nature that delighted him.

"Ow! sic like's thyme and southren-wood, and maybe a bittie o' mignonette."

"Ay! ay! And sae the cowmon custom abuses you, young, bonnie lammies o' the flock. Wadna ye tak' the rose o' Sharon itsel', nor the fire-reid lilies that made the text for the Saviour's sermon? Ow! na. Ye maun be sober, wi' flooers bonnie eneuch, but smellin' o' the kirkyard raither nor the blue lift, which same's the sapphire throne o' Him that sat thereon."

"Weel, but allooin' that, ye sudna gar fowk lauch, wi' a bonnie flooer, but ridickleous for the size o' 't, 'cep' ye gie 't room. A kirk's ower little for't."

"Ye're richt there, my dawtie. And I haena been to the kirk ava'. I hae been to the hills."

"And what got ye there?"

"I got this upo' the road hame."

"But what got ye there?"

"Weel, I got the blue lift."

"And what was that to ye?"

"It said to me that I was a foolish man to care aboot the claiks and the strifes o' the warl'; for a' was quaiet aboon, whatever stramash they micht be makin' doon here i' the cellars o' the speeritual creation."

Annie was silent: while she did not quite understand him, she had a dim perception of a grand meaning in what he said.

The fact was that Annie was the greater of the two in esse; Cupples the greater in posse. His imagination let him see things far beyond what he could for a long time attain unto.

"But what got ye at the kirk, Annie?"

"Weel, I canna say I got verra muckle the day. Mr Turnbull's text was, 'Thou, Lord, art merciful, for thou renderest to every man according to his works.'"

"Ye micht hae gotten a hantel oot o' that."

"Ay. But ye see, he said the Lord was merciful to ither fowk whan he rendert to the wicked the punishment due to them. And I cudna richtly feel i' my hert that I cud praise the Lord for that mercy."

"I dinna wonner, my bairn."

"But eh! Mr Cupples, Mr Turnbull's no like that aye. He's bonnie upo' the Gospel news. I wiss ye wad gang and hear him the nicht. I canna gang, cause Mrs Forbes is gaun oot."

"I'll gang and hear him, to please you, my lassie; for, as I said, I haena been to the kirk the day."

"But do ye think it's richt to brak the Sawbath, Mr Cupples?"