with age, stood in the middle. On a side-table covered with a cloth of faded green, lay a large family bible; behind it were a few books and a tea-caddy. In the side of the wall opposite the window, was again a box-bed. To the eyes of the shepherd-born lad, it looked the most desirable shelter he had ever seen. He turned to his hostess and said,
"I'm feart it's ower guid for me. What could ye lat me hae't for by the week? I wad fain bide wi' ye, but whaur an' whan I may get wark I canna tell; sae I maunna tak it ony gait for mair nor a week."
"Mak yersel' at ease till the morn be by," said the old woman. "Ye canna du naething till that be ower. Upo' the Mononday mornin' we s' haud a cooncil thegither—you an' me an' my man: I can du naething wantin' my man; we aye pu' thegither or no at a'."
Well content, and with hearty thanks, Donal committed his present fate into the hands of the humble pair, his heaven-sent helpers; and after much washing and brushing, all that was possible to him in the way of dressing, reappeared in the kitchen. Their tea was ready, and the cobbler seated in the window with a book in his hand, leaving for Donal his easy chair.
"I canna tak yer ain cheir frae ye," said Donal.
"Hoots!" returned the cobbler, "what's onything oors for but to gie the neeper 'at stan's i' need o' 't."
"But ye hae had a sair day's wark!"
"An' you a sair day's traivel!"
"But I'm yoong!"
"An' I'm auld, an' my labour the nearer ower."
"But I'm strong!"
"There's nane the less need ye sud be hauden sae. Sit ye doon, an' wastena yer backbane. My business is to luik to the bodies o' men, an' specially to their puir feet 'at has to bide the weicht, an' get sair pressed therein. Life 's as hard upo' the feet o' a man as upo' ony pairt o' 'm! Whan they gang wrang, there isna muckle to be dune till they be set richt again. I'm sair honourt, I say to mysel' whiles, to be set ower the feet o' men. It's a fine ministration!—full better than bein' a door-keeper i' the hoose o' the Lord! For the feet 'at gang oot an' in at it 's mair nor the door!"
"The Lord be praist!" said Donal to himself; "there's mair i' the warl' like my father an' mither!"
He took the seat appointed him.
"Come to the table, Anerew," said the old woman, "gien sae be ye can pairt wi' that buik o' yours, an' lat yer sowl gie place to yer boady's richts.—I doobt, sir, gien he wad ait or drink gien I wasna at his elbuck."
"Doory," returned her husband, "ye canna deny I gie ye a bit noo an' than, specially whan I come upo' onything by ord'nar' tasty!"
"That ye du, Anerew, or I dinna ken what wud come o' my sowl ony mair nor o' your boady! Sae ye see, sir, we're like John Sprat an' his wife:—ye'll ken the bairns' say aboot them?"
"Ay, fine that," replied Donal. "Ye couldna weel be better fittit."
"God grant it!" she said. "But we wad fit better yet gien I had but a wheen mair brains."
"The Lord kenned what brains ye had whan he broucht ye thegither," said Donal.
"Ye never uttert a truer word," replied the cobbler. "Gien the Lord be content wi' the brains he's gien ye, an' I be content wi' the brains ye gie me, what richt hae ye to be discontentit wi' the brains ye hae, Doory?—answer me that. But I s' come to the table.—Wud ye alloo me to speir efter yer name, sir?"
"My name 's Donal Grant," replied Donal.
"I thank ye, sir, an' I'll haud it in respec'," returned the cobbler. "Maister Grant, wull ye ask a blessin'?"
"I wad raither j'in i' your askin'," replied Donal.
The cobbler said a little prayer, and then they began to eat—first of oat-cakes, baked by the old woman, then of loaf-breid, as they called it.
"I'm sorry I hae nae jeally or jam to set afore ye, sir," said Doory, "we're but semple fowk, ye see—content to haud oor earthly taibernacles in a haibitable condition till we hae notice to quit."
"It's a fine thing to ken," said the cobbler, with a queer look, "'at whan ye lea' 't, yer hoose fa's doon, an' ye haena to think o' ony damages to pey—forby 'at gien it laistit ony time efter ye was oot o' 't, there micht be a wheen deevils takin' up their abode intil 't."
"Hoot, Anerew!" interposed his wife, "there's naething like that i' scriptur'!"
"Hoot, Doory!" returned Andrew, "what ken ye aboot what's no i' scriptur'? Ye ken a heap, I alloo, aboot what's in scriptur', but ye ken little aboot what's no intil 't!"
"Weel, isna 't best to ken what's intil 't?"
"'Ayont a doobt."
"Weel!" she returned in playful triumph.
Donal saw that he had got hold of a pair of originals: it was a joy to his heart: he was himself an original—one, namely, that lived close to the simplicities of existence!
Andrew Comin, before offering him house-room, would never have asked anyone what he was; but he would have thought it an equal lapse in breeding not to show interest in the history as well as the person of a guest. After a little more talk, so far from commonplace that the common would have found it mirth-provoking, the cobbler said:
"An' what office may ye haud yersel', sir, i' the ministry o' the temple?"
"I think I un'erstan' ye," replied Donal; "my mother says curious things like you."
"Curious things is whiles no that curious," remarked Andrew.
A pause following, he resumed:
"Gien onything gie ye reason to prefar waitin' till ye ken Doory an' me a bit better, sir," he said, "coont my ill-mainnert queston no speirt."
"There's naething," answered Donal. "I'll tell ye onything or a'thing aboot mysel'."
"Tell what ye wull, sir, an' keep what ye wull," said the cobbler.
"I was broucht up a herd-laddie," proceeded Donal, "an' whiles a shepherd ane. For mony a year I kent mair aboot the hill-side nor the ingle-neuk. But it's the same God an' Father upo' the hill-side an' i' the king's pailace."
"An' ye'll ken a' aboot the win', an' the cloods, an' the w'ys o' God ootside the hoose! I ken something hoo he hauds things gaein' inside the hoose—in a body's hert, I mean—in mine an' Doory's there, but I ken little aboot the w'y he gars things work 'at he's no sae far ben in."
"Ye dinna surely think God fillsna a'thing?" exclaimed Donal.
"Na, na; I ken better nor that," answered the cobbler; "but ye maun alloo a tod's hole 's no sae deep as the thro't o' a burnin' m'untain! God himsel' canna win sae far ben in a shallow place as in a deep place; he canna be sae far ben i' the win's, though he gars them du as he likes, as he is, or sud be, i' your hert an' mine, sir!"
"I see!" responded Donal. "Could that hae been hoo the Lord had to rebuke the win's an' the wawves, as gien they had been gaein' at their ain free wull, i'stead o' the wull o' him 'at made them an' set them gaein'?"
"Maybe; but I wud hae to think aboot it 'afore I answert," replied the cobbler.
A silence intervened. Then said Andrew, thoughtfully,
"I
