JOHN.  The habit hangs on to them whiles.

DAVID.  It does that. (With a twinkle) An’ mebbe, if God’s gi’en yer neighbors ears an’ ye live close, ye’ll get yer wey by a dispensation o’ Providence a while longer.  But there’s things ye’ll hae to do for yerself gin ye want to—­an’ ye will.  Ye’ll want to hold oot yer hand, an’ ye will hold oot yer hand; an’ ye ’ll want to stand up and walk, and ye will stand up and walk; an’ ye’ll want to dae as ye please, and ye will dae as ye please; and then ye are practised an’ lernt in the art of gettin’ yer ain way—­and ye’re a man!

JOHN.  Man, feyther—­ye’re wonderful!

DAVID (complacently).  I’m a philosopher, John.  But it goes on mebbe.

JOHN.  Aye?

David.  Aye:  mebbe ye think ye’d like to make ither folk mind ye an’ yer way, an’ ye try, an’ if it comes off ye’re a big man an’ mebbe the master o’ a vessel wi’ three men an’ a boy under ye, as I was, John. (Dropping into the minor) An then ye come doon the hill.

JOHN (apprehensively).  Doon the hill?

DAVID.  Aye—­doon to mebbe wantin’ to tell a wean a bit story before he gangs tae his bed, an’ ye canna dae even that.  An’ then a while more an’ ye want to get to yer feet an’ walk, and ye canna; an’ a while more an’ ye want to lift up yer hand, an’ ye canna—­an’ in a while more ye’re just forgotten an’ done wi’.

JOHN.  Aw, feyther!

DAVID.  Dinna look sae troubled, John.  I’m no’ afraid to dee when my time comes.  It’s these hints that I’m done wi’ before I’m dead that I dinna like.

JOHN.  What’n hints?

DAVID.  Well—­Lizzie an’ her richt’s richt and wrang’s wrang when I think o’ tellin’ wee Alexander a bit story before he gangs tae his bed.

JOHN (gently).  Ye are a wee thing persistent, feyther.

DAVID.  No, I’m no’ persistent, John.  I’ve gied in.  I’m a philosopher, John, an’ a philosopher kens when he’s done wi’.

JOHN.  Aw, feyther!

DAVID (getting lower and lower).  It’s gey interesting, philosophy, John, an’ the only philosophy worth thinkin’ about is the philosophy of growing old—­because that’s what we’re a’ doing, a’ living things.  There’s nae philosophy in a stane, John; he’s juist a stane, an’ in a hundred years he’ll be juist a stane still—­unless he’s broken up, an’ then he’ll be juist not a stane, but he’ll no’ ken what’s happened to him, because he didna break up gradual and first lose his boat an’ then his hoose, an’ then hae his wee grandson taken away when he was for tellin’ him a bit story before he gangs tae his bed.—­It’s yon losing yer grip bit by bit and kennin’ that yer losin’ it that makes a philosopher, John.

JOHN.  If I kennt what ye meant by philosophy, feyther, I’d be better able to follow ye.

(LIZZIE enters quietly and closes door after her.)

JOHN.  Is he asleep?