Tears began to roll doon her cheeks as she spoke.  I was glad the puir mither was no deed; it was hard enough, wi’ such bonny bairns, to ha’ to leave them to others, even her ane parents, to bring up.

“The father o’ the bairns was a bad lot—­is still, I’ve no doot, if he’s still living.  He was wild before they were wed, but no so bad, sae far as we knew then.  We were no so awfu’ pleased wi’ her choice, but we knew nothing bad enough aboot him to forbid her tak’ him.  He was a handsome lad, and a clever yin.  Everyone liked him fine, forbye they distrusted him, too.  But he always said he’d never had a chance.  He talked of how if one gie a dog a bad name one micht as well droon him and ha’ done.  And we believed in him enow to think he micht be richt, and that if he had the chance he’d settle doon and be a gude man enow.”

He’ ye no heard that tale before?  The man who’s never had a chance!  I know a thousand men like that.  And they’ve had chances you and I wad ha’ gie’n whatever we had for and never had the manhood to tak’ them!  Eh, but I was sair angry, listening to her.

She told o’ how she and her husband put their heads togither.  They wanted their dochter to have a chance as gude as’ any girl.  And so what did they do but tak’ all the savings of their lives, twa hundred pounds, and buy a bit schooner for him.  He was a sailor lad, it seems, from the toon nearby, and used to the sea.

“’Twas but a wee boat we bought him, but gude for his use in journeying up and doon the coast wi’ cargo.  His first trip was fine; he made money, and we were all sae happy, syne it seemed we’d been richt in backing him, for a’ the neighbors had called us fools.  But then misfortune laid sair hands upon us a’.  The wee schooner was wrecked on the rocks at Gairliestone.  None was lost wi’ her, sae it kicht ha’ been worse—­though I dinna ken, I dinna ken!

“We were a’ sorry for the boy.  It was no his fault the wee boat was lost; none blamed him for that.  But, d’ye ken, he came and brocht himsel’ and his wife and his bairns, as they came along, to live wi’ us.  We were old.  We’d worked hard all our lives.  We’d gie’n him a’ we had.  Wad ye no think he’d have gone to work and sought to pay us back?  But no.  Not he.  He sat him doon, and was content to live upon us—­faither and me, old and worn out though he knew we were.

“And that wasna the worst.  He asked us for siller a’ the time, and he beat Lizzie, and was cruel to the wee bairns when we wouldna or couldna find it for him.  So it went on, for the years, till, in the end, we gied him twenty pounds more we’d put awa’ for a rainy day that he micht tak’ himself’ off oot o’ our sicht and leave us be in peace.  He was aff tae Liverpool at once, and we’ve never clapped een upon him syne then.