sometimes with Archie, the only child of that scarce natural union. The

child was her next bond to life. Her frosted sentiment bloomed again,

she breathed deep of life, she let loose her heart, in that society.

The miracle of her motherhood was ever new to her. The sight of the

little man at her skirt intoxicated her with the sense of power, and

froze her with the consciousness of her responsibility. She looked

forward, and, seeing him in fancy grow up and play his diverse part on

the world's theatre, caught in her breath and lifted up her courage with

a lively effort. It was only with the child that she forgot herself and

was at moments natural; yet it was only with the child that she had

conceived and managed to pursue a scheme of conduct. Archie was to be a

great man and a good; a minister if possible, a saint for certain. She

tried to engage his mind upon her favourite books, Rutherford's LETTERS,

Scougalls GRACE ABOUNDING, and the like. It was a common practice of

hers (and strange to remember now) that she would carry the child to the

Deil's Hags, sit with him on the Praying Weaver's stone, and talk of the

Covenanters till their tears ran down. Her view of history was wholly

artless, a design in snow and ink; upon the one side, tender innocents

with psalms upon their lips; upon the other, the persecutors, booted,

bloody-minded, flushed with wine: a suffering Christ, a raging

Beelzebub. PERSECUTOR was a word that knocked upon the woman's heart;

it was her highest thought of wickedness, and the mark of it was on her

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