“I’m no jist prepared to say sae muckle, Janet,” replied David; “there’s mony a thing ’at’s lees, as ye ca’t, ‘at’s no lees a’ through.  Ye see, Maister Sutherlan’, I’m no gleg at the uptak, an’ it jist taks me twise as lang as ither fowk to see to the ootside o’ a thing.  Whiles a sentence ’ill leuk to me clean nonsense a’thegither; an’ maybe a haill ook efter, it’ll come upo’ me a’ at ance; an’ fegs! it’s the best thing in a’ the beuk.”

Margaret’s eyes were fixed on her father with a look which I can only call faithfulness, as if every word he spoke was truth, whether she could understand it or not.

“But perhaps we may look too far for meanings sometimes,” suggested Sutherland.

“Maybe, maybe; but when a body has a suspeecion o’ a trowth, he sud never lat sit till he’s gotten eyther hit, or an assurance that there’s nothing there.  But there’s jist ae thing, in the poem ’at I can pit my finger upo’, an’ say ’at it’s no richt clear to me whether it’s a’ straucht-foret or no?”

“What’s that, Mr. Elginbrod?”

“It’s jist this—­what for a’ thae sailor-men fell doon deid, an’ the chield ‘at shot the bonnie burdie, an’ did a’ the mischeef, cam’ to little hurt i’ the ’en—­comparateevely.”

“Well,” said Hugh, “I confess I’m not prepared to answer the question.  If you get any light on the subject”—­

“Ow, I daursay I may.  A heap o’ things comes to me as I’m takin’ a daunder by mysel’ i’ the gloamin’.  I’ll no say a thing’s wrang till I hae tried it ower an’ ower; for maybe I haena a richt grip o’ the thing ava.”

“What can ye expec, Dawvid, o’ a leevin’ corp, an’ a’ that?—­ay, twa hunner corps—­fower times fifty’s twa hunner—­an’ angels turnin’ sailors, an’ sangs gaein fleein’ aboot like laverocks, and tummelin’ doon again, tired like?—­Gude preserve’s a’!”

“Janet, do ye believe ’at ever a serpent spak?”

“Hoot!  Dawvid, the deil was in him, ye ken.”

“The deil a word o’ that’s i’ the word itsel, though,” rejoined David with a smile.

“Dawvid,” said Janet, solemnly, and with some consternation, “ye’re no gaein’ to tell me, sittin’ there, at ye dinna believe ilka word ‘at’s prentit atween the twa brods o’ the Bible?  What will Maister Sutherlan’ think o’ ye?”

“Janet, my bonnie lass—­” and here David’s eyes beamed upon his wife—­“I believe as mony o’ them as ye do, an’ maybe a wheen mair, my dawtie.  Keep yer min’ easy aboot that.  But ye jist see ’at fowk warna a’thegither saitisfeed aboot a sairpent speikin’, an’ sae they leukit aboot and aboot till at last they fand the deil in him.  Gude kens whether he was there or no.  Noo, ye see hoo, gin we was to leuk weel aboot thae corps, an’ thae angels, an’ a’ that queer stuff—­but oh! it’s bonny stuff tee!—­we micht fa’ in wi’ something we didna awthegither expec, though we was leukin’ for’t a’ the time.  Sae I maun jist think aboot it, Mr. Sutherlan’; an’ I wad fain read it ower again, afore I lippen on giein’ my opingan on the maitter.  Ye cud lave the bit beukie, sir?  We’se tak’ guid care o’t.”