In the middle of their goings on, the sound of a coming foot was heard, and the lassie, taking guilt to her, cried out, “Hide me, hide me, for the sake of goodness, for yonder comes my old father!” No sooner said than done.  In he stappit her into a closit, and, after shutting the door on her, he sat down upon a chair, pretending to be asleep in the twinkling of a walking-stick.  The old father came bounsing in, shook him up, and gripping him by the cuff of the neck, aske him, in a fierce tone, what he had made of his daughter.  Never since I was born did I ever see such brazen-faced impudence!  The rascal had the face to say at once that he had not seen the lassie for a month.  As a man, as a father, as an elder of our kirk, my corruption was raised, for I aye hated lying as a poor cowardly sin, so I called out, “Dinna believe him, auld gentleman; he’s telling a parcel of lees.  Never saw her for a month!  Just open that press-door, and ye’ll see whether I am speaking truth or not!” The old man stared and looked dumfounded; and the young one, instead of running forward with his double nieves to strike me, began a-laughing, as if I had done him a good turn.

But never since I had a being did I ever witness such an uproar and noise as immediately took place.  The whole house was so glad that the scoundrel had been exposed that they set up siccan a roar of laughter, and thumped away at siccan a rate with their feet that down fell the place they called the gallery, all the folk in’t being hurl’d topsy-turvy among the sawdust on the floor below.

Then followed cries of “Murder,” “Hold off me,” “My ribs are in,” “I’m killed,” “I’m speechless.”  There was a rush to the door, the lights were knocked out, and such tearing, swearing, tumbling, and squealing was never witnessed in the memory of man since the building of Babel.  I was carried off my feet, my wind was fairly gone, and a sick qualm came over me, which entirely deprived me of my senses.  On opening my eyes in the dark, I found myself leaning with my broadside against the wall on the opposite side of the close, with the tail of my Sunday coat docked by the hainch buttons.  So much for plays and play-actors—­the first and the last I trust in grace that I shall ever see.

Next morning I had to take my breakfast in bed, a thing very uncommon to me, except on Sunday mornings whiles, when each one according to the bidding of the Fourth Commandment, has a licence to do as he likes.  Having a desperate sore head, our wife, poor body, put a thimbleful of brandy into my first cup of tea which had a wonderful virtue in putting all things to rights.

In the afternoon Thomas Burlings, the ruling elder in the kirk, popped into the shop, and, in our two-handed crack, after asking me in a dry, curious way if I had come by no skaith in the business of the play, he said the thing had now spread far and wide, and was making a great noise in the world.  I thought the body a wee sharp in his observe, so I pretended to take it quite lightly.  Then he began to tell me a wheen stories, each one having to do with drinking.