y an'
degradation that I see frae mornin' to nicht, and aftener yet frae nicht
to mornin' i' the back closes and wynds o' the great city?'

'I trust it's the glory o' God, laddie.'

'I houp that's no a'thegither wantin', grannie. For I love God wi' a' my
hert. But I doobt it's aftener the savin' o' my earthly father nor the
glory o' my heavenly ane that I'm thinkin' o'.'

Mrs. Falconer heaved a deep sigh.

'God grant ye success, Robert,' she said. 'But that canna be richt.'

'What canna be richt?'

'No to put the glory o' God first and foremost.'

'Weel, grannie; but a body canna rise to the heicht o' grace a' at ance,
nor yet in ten, or twenty year. Maybe gin I do richt, I may be able to
come to that or a' be dune. An' efter a', I'm sure I love God mair nor
my father. But I canna help thinkin' this, that gin God heardna ae sang
o' glory frae this ill-doin' earth o' his, he wadna be nane the waur;
but--'

'Hoo ken ye that?' interrupted his grandmother.

'Because he wad be as gude and great and grand as ever.'

'Ow ay.'

'But what wad come o' my father wantin' his salvation? He can waur want
that, remainin' the slave o' iniquity, than God can want his glory.
Forby, ye ken there's nae glory to God like the repentin' o' a sinner,
justifeein' God, an' sayin' till him--"Father, ye're a' richt, an' I'm
a' wrang." What greater glory can God hae nor that?'

'It's a' true 'at ye say. But still gin God cares for that same glory,
ye oucht to think o' that first, afore even the salvation o' yer
father.'

'Maybe ye're richt, grannie. An' gin it be as ye say--he's promised
to lead us into a' trowth, an' he'll lead me into that trowth. But I'm
thinkin' it's mair for oor sakes than his ain 'at he cares aboot his
glory. I dinna believe 'at he thinks aboot his glory excep' for the sake
o' the trowth an' men's herts deein' for want o' 't.'

Mrs. Falconer thought for a moment.

'It may be 'at ye're richt, laddie; but ye hae a way o' sayin' things
'at 's some fearsome.'

'God's nae like a prood man to tak offence, grannie. There's naething
pleases him like the trowth, an' there's naething displeases him like
leein', particularly whan it's by way o' uphaudin' him. He wants nae
sic uphaudin'. Noo, ye say things aboot him whiles 'at soun's to me
fearsome.'

'What kin' o' things are they, laddie?' asked the old lady, with offence
glooming in the background.

'Sic like as whan ye speyk aboot him as gin he was a puir prood