Donal Grant | Page 6

no to hae
his wull o' me? It's a gran' thing to ken a lassie like yon, an' a gran'er
thing yet to be allooed to lo'e her: to sit down an' greit 'cause I'm no to
merry her, wad be most oongratefu'! What for sud I threip 'at I oucht to
hae her? What for sudna I be disapp'intit as weel as anither? I hae as
guid a richt to ony guid 'at's to come o' that, I fancy! Gien it be a man's
pairt to cairry a sair hert, it canna be his pairt to sit doon wi' 't upo' the
ro'd-side, an' lay't upo' his lap, an' greit ower't, like a bairn wi' a cuttit
finger: he maun haud on his ro'd. Wha am I to differ frae the lave o' my
fowk! I s' be like the lave, an' gien I greit I winna girn. The Lord
himsel' had to be croont wi' pain. Eh, my bonnie doo! But ye lo'e a
better man, an' that's a sair comfort! Gien it had been itherwise, I div
not think I could hae borne the pain at my hert. But as it's guid an' no ill
'at's come to ye, I haena you an' mysel' tu to greit for, an' that's a sair
comfort! Lord, I'll clim' to thee, an' gaither o' the healin' 'at grows for
the nations i' thy gairden.
"I see the thing as plain's thing can be: the cure o' a' ill 's jist mair life!
That's it! Life abune an' ayont the life 'at took the stroke! An' gien
throu' this hert-brak I come by mair life, it'll be jist ane o' the throes o'
my h'avenly birth--i' the whilk the bairn has as mony o' the pains as the
mither: that's maybe a differ 'atween the twa--the earthly an' the
h'avenly!
"Sae noo I hae to begin fresh, an' lat the thing 'at's past an' gane slip

efter ither dreams. Eh, but it's a bonny dream yet! It lies close 'ahin' me,
no to be forgotten, no to be luikit at--like ane o' thae dreams o' watter
an' munelicht 'at has nae wark i' them: a body wadna lie a' nicht an' a'
day tu in a dream o' the sowl's gloamin'! Na, Lord; mak o' me a strong
man, an' syne gie me as muckle o' the bonny as may please thee. Wha
am I to lippen til, gien no to thee, my ain father an' mither an'
gran'father an' a' body in ane, for thoo giedst me them a'!
"Noo I'm to begin again--a fresh life frae this minute! I'm to set oot frae
this verra p'int, like ane o' the youngest sons i' the fairy tales, to seek
my portion, an' see what's comin' to meet me as I gang to meet hit. The
warl' afore me's my story-buik. I canna see ower the leaf till I come to
the en' o' 't. Whan I was a bairn, jist able, wi' sair endeevour, to win at
the hert o' print, I never wad luik on afore! The ae time I did it, I
thoucht I had dune a shamefu' thing, like luikin' in at a keyhole--as I did
jist ance tu, whan I thank God my mither gae me sic a blessed lickin' 'at
I kent it maun be something dreidfu' I had dune. Sae here's for what's
comin'! I ken whaur it maun come frae, an' I s' make it welcome. My
mither says the main mischeef i' the warl' is, 'at fowk winna lat the Lord
hae his ain w'y, an' sae he has jist to tak it, whilk maks it a sair thing for
them."
Therewith he rose to encounter that which was on its way to meet him.
He is a fool who stands and lets life move past him like a panorama. He
also is a fool who would lay hands on its motion, and change its
pictures. He can but distort and injure, if he does not ruin them, and
come upon awful shadows behind them.
And lo! as he glanced around him, already something of the old
mysterious loveliness, now for so long vanished from the face of the
visible world, had returned to it--not yet as it was before, but with
dawning promise of a new creation, a fresh beauty, in welcoming
which he was not turning from the old, but receiving the new that God
sent him. He might yet be many a time sad, but to lament would be to
act as if he were wronged--would be at best weak and foolish! He
would look the new life in the face, and be what it should please God to
make him. The scents the wind brought him from field and