ne o' the elec'?" she said,
quaking.

"That's a hard maitter. It's no needfu' to ken't aforehan'. Jist lat
that alane i' the mean time."

"But I canna lat it alane. It's no for mysel' aither a'thegither. Could
_ye_ lat it alane, Thomas?"

This home-thrust prevented any questioning about the second clause of
her answer. And Thomas dearly loved plain dealing.

"Ye hae me there, lassie. Na, I cudna lat it alane. An' I never did lat
it alane. I plaguit the Lord nicht an' day till he loot me ken."

"I tried hard last nicht," said Annie, "but the rottans war ower mony
for me."

"Sawtan has mony wiles," said the mason reflectively.

"Do ye think they warna rottans?' asked Annie.

"Ow! nae doot. I daursay."

"'Cause, gin I thocht they war only deils, I wadna care a buckie
(periwinkle) for them."

"It's muckle the same what ye ca' them, gin they ca you frae the throne
o' grace, lassie."

"What am I to do than, Thomas?"

"Ye maun haud at it, lassie, jist as the poor widow did wi' the unjust
judge. An' gin the Lord hears ye, ye'll ken ye're ane o' the elec', for
it's only his own elec' that the Lord dis hear. Eh! lassie, little ye
ken aboot prayin' an' no faintin'."

Alas for the parable if Thomas's theories were to be carried out in its
exposition! For they would lead to the conclusion that the Lord and the
unjust judge were one and the same person. But it is our divine
aspirations and not our intellectual theories that need to be carried
out. The latter may, nay must in some measure, perish; the former will
be found in perfect harmony with the divine Will; yea, true though
faint echoes of that Will--echoes from the unknown caves of our deepest
humanity, where lies, yet swathed in darkness, the divine image.

To Thomas's words Annie's only reply was a fixed gaze, which he
answered thus, resuming his last words:

"Ay, lassie, little ye ken aboot watchin' and prayin'. Whan it pleased
the Lord to call me, I was stan'in' my lane i' the mids' o' a
peat-moss, luikin' wast, whaur the sun had left a reid licht ahin him,
as gin he had jist brunt oot o' the lift, an' hadna gane doon ava. An'
it min'd me o' the day o' jeedgment. An' there I steid and luikit, till
the licht itsel' deid oot, an' naething was left but a gray sky an' a
feow starns intil't. An' the cloods gethered, an' the lift grew black
an' mirk; an' the haill countryside vainished, till I kent no more
aboot it than what my twa feet could answer for. An' I