In the Limbo into which Robert's then spirit flew, it had been sorely exercised about the substitution of the sufferings of Christ for those which humanity must else have endured while ages rolled on--mere ripples on the ocean of eternity.
'Noo, be douce,' said Mrs.Falconer, solemnly, as Robert, a trifle lighter at heart from the result of his cogitations than usual, sat down to dinner: he had happened to smile across the table to Shargar.

And he was douce, and smiled no more.
They ate their broth, or, more properly, supped it, with horn spoons, in absolute silence; after which Mrs.Falconer put a large piece of meat on the plate of each, with the same formula: 'Hae.

Ye s' get nae mair.' The allowance was ample in the extreme, bearing a relation to her words similar to that which her practice bore to her theology.

A piece of cheese, because it was the Sabbath, followed, and dinner was over.
When the table had been cleared by Betty, they drew their chairs to the fire, and Robert had to read to his grandmother, while Shargar sat listening.

He had not read long, however, before he looked up from his Bible and began the following conversation:-- 'Wasna it an ill trick o' Joseph, gran'mither, to put that cup, an' a siller ane tu, into the mou' o' Benjamin's seck ?' 'What for that, laddie?
He wanted to gar them come back again, ye ken.' 'But he needna hae gane aboot it in sic a playactor-like gait.