JOHN.  Lizzie.

(Lizzie immediately comes into sight outside the door with a “Shsh.")

JOHN.  Yer feyther’s greetin’.

LIZZIE (with a touch of exasperation).  Och, I’m no heedin’!  There’s another wean in there greetin’ too, an’ I’m no heedin’ him neither, an’ he’s greetin’ twicet as loud as the auld yin.

JOHN (shocked).  Ye’re heartless, wumman.

LIZZIE (with patience).  No, I’m no’ heartless, John; but there’s too much heart in this family, an’ someone’s got to use their heid.

(DAVID cranes round the side of his chair to catch what they are saying.  She stops and comes to him kindly but with womanly firmness.)

LIZZIE.  I’m vexed ye should be disappointed, feyther, but ye see, don’t ye—­

(A singularly piercing wail from ALEXANDER goes up.  LIZZIE rushes to silence him.)

LIZZIE.  Mercy!  The neighbors will think we’re murderin’ him.

(The door closes behind her.)

DAVID (nodding for a space as he revolves the woman’s attitude). 
Ye hear that, John?

JOHN.  Whit?

DAVID (with quiet irony).  She’s vexed I should be disappointed.  The wumman thinks she’s richt!  Women always think they’re richt—­mebbe it’s that that makes them that obstinate. (With the ghost of a twinkle) She’s feart o’ the neighbors, though.

JOHN (stolidly).  A’ women are feart o’ the neighbors.

DAVID (reverting).  Puir wee man.  I telt ye he was greetin’, John.  He’s disappointed fine. (Pondering) D’ ye ken whit I’m thinkin’, John?

JOHN.  Whit?

DAVID.  I’m thinkin’ he’s too young to get his ain way, an’ I’m too auld, an’ it’s a fine thocht!

JOHN.  Aye?

DAVID.  Aye.  I never thocht of it before, but that’s what it is.  He’s no’ come to it yet, an’ I’m past it. (Suddenly) What’s the most important thing in life, John?

(JOHN opens his mouth—­and shuts it again unused.)

DAVID.  Ye ken perfectly well.  What is it ye’re wantin’ a’ the time?

JOHN.  Different things.

DAVID (satisfied).  Aye—­different things!  But ye want them a’, do ye no’?

JOHN.  Aye.

DAVID.  If ye had yer ain way ye’d hae them a’, eh?

JOHN.  I wud that.

DAVID (triumphant).  Then is that no’ what ye want:  yer ain way?

JOHN (enlightened).  Losh!

DAVID (warming to it).  That’s what life is, John—­gettin’ yer ain way.  First ye’re born, an’ ye canna dae anything but cry; but God’s given yer mither ears an’ ye get yer way by just cryin’ for it. (Hastily, anticipating criticism) I ken that’s no exactly in keeping with what I’ve been saying aboot Alexander—­but a new-born bairnie’s an awfu’ delicate thing, an’ the Lord gets it past its infancy by a dispensation of Providence very unsettling to oor poor human understandings.  Ye’ll notice the weans cease gettin’ their wey by juist greetin’ for it as shin as they’re old enough to seek it otherwise.