John sat and looked at his fallen idol with a vacant, tear-stained face.

He tried to pray a few words at intervals, but he was not yet able to gird up his soul and wrestle with this grief.

When Jenny came in she was shocked at the gray, wretched look with which her master pointed to the shameful figure on the sofa.

Nevertheless, she went gently to it, raised the fallen head to the pillow, and then went and got a blanket to cover the sleeper, muttering, "Poor fellow! There's nae need to let him get a pleurisy, ony gate.
Whatna for did ye no tell me, deacon?
Then I could hae made him a cup o' warm tea." She spoke as if she was angry, not at David, but at John; and, though it was only the natural instinct of a woman defending what she dearly loved, John gave it a different meaning, and it added to his suffering.
"You are right, Jenny, woman," he said humbly, "it is my fault.

I mixed his first glass for him." "Vera weel.