Och hone! Och hone! Eh! Robert, my man, be a guid lad, an' serve the Lord wi' a' yer hert, an' sowl, an' stren'th, an' min'; for gin ye gang wrang, yer ain father 'll hae to beir naebody kens hoo muckle o' the wyte o' 't, for he's dune naething to bring ye up i' the way ye suld gang, an' haud ye oot o' the ill gait.

For the sake o' yer puir father, haud ye to the richt road.

It may spare him a pang or twa i' the ill place.

Eh, gin the Lord wad only tak me, and lat him gang!' Involuntarily and unconsciously the mother's love was adopting the hope which she had denounced in her grandson.

And Robert saw it, but he was never the man when I knew him to push a victory.