She stood with the tinder-box and the flint and brimstone matches in her hands.  “I wonder if the tinder is burnt enough, Alexander,” she said; and with the words she sharply struck the flint.  A spark fell instantly and set fire to it, and she lit her match and watched it blaze with a singular look of triumph on her face.  Somehow the trifling affair irritated the elder.  “What are you doing at a’?  You’re acting like a silly bairn, makin’ a blaze for naething.  There’s a fire on the hearth:  whatna for, then, are you wasting tinder and a match?”

“Maybe it wasna for naething, Elder.  Maybe I was asking for a sign, and got the ane I wanted.  There’s nae sin in that, I hope.  You ken Gideon did it when he had to stand up for the oppressed, and slay the tyrant.”

“Tut, woman, you arena Gideon, nor yet o’ Gideon’s kind; and, forbye, there’s nae angel speaking wi’ you.”

“You’re right there, Elder.  But, for a’ that, I’m glad that the spark fired the tinder, and that the tinder lit the match, and that the match burnt sae bright and sae bravely.  It has made a glow in my heart, and I’ll sleep well wi’ the pleasure o’ it.”

Next morning the argument was not renewed.  Neil was sombre and silent.  His father was uncertain as to his views, and he did not want to force or hurry a decision.  Besides, it would evidently be more prudent to speak with the young man when he could not be influenced by his mother’s wilful, scornful tongue.  Perhaps Neil shared this prudent feeling; for he deprecated conversation, and, on the plea of business, left the breakfast-table before the meal was finished.

The elder, however, had some indemnification for his cautious silence.  He permitted himself, at family prayers, a very marked reading of St. Paul’s injunction, “Fear God and honour the king;” and ere he left the house he said to his wife, “Janet, I hope you hae come to your senses.  You’ll allow that you didna treat me wi’ a proper respect yestreen?”

She was standing face to face with him, her hands uplifted, fastening the broad silver clasp of his cloak.  For a moment she hesitated, the next she raised herself on tiptoes, and kissed him.  He pursed up his mouth a little sternly, and then stroked her white hair.  “You heard what St. Paul says, Janet; isna that a settlement o’ the question?”

“I’m no blaming St. Paul, Alexander.  If ever St. Paul approves o’ submitting to tyranny, it’s thae translators’ fault.  He wouldna tak’ injustice himsel’, not even from a Roman magistrate.  I wish St. Paul was alive the day:  I’m vera sure if he were, he’d write an epistle to the English wad put the king’s dues just as free men would be willing to pay them.  Now, don’t be angry, Alexander.  If you go awa’ angry at me, you’ll hae a bad day; you ken that, gudeman.”

It was a subtile plea; for no man, however wise or good or brave, likes to bespeak ill-fortune when it can be averted by a sacrifice so easy and so pleasant.  But, in spite of Janet’s kiss, he was unhappy; and when he reached the store, the clerks and porters were all standing together talking.  He knew quite well what topic they were discussing with such eager movements and excited speech.  But they dispersed to their work at the sight of his sour, stern face, and he did not intend to open a fresh dispute by any question.