Each time she showed him, to secure like pity with her own, she turned down the bedclothes, and revealed the little back, smitten with the eternal memorial of the divine perfection.

The women wept.

The young men were furious, each after his fashion.
"God damn the rascal 'at did it!" cried one of them, clenching his teeth, and forgetting himself quite in the rage of the moment.
"Laddie, tak back the word," said his mother calmly.

"Gien ye dinna forgie yer enemies, ye'll no be forgi'en yersel'." "That's some hard, mither," answered the offender, with an attempted smile.
"Hard!" she echoed; "it may weel be hard, for it canna be helpit.
What wad be the use o' forgiein' ye, or hoo cud it win at ye, or what wad ye care for't, or mak o't, cairryin' a hell o' hate i' yer verra hert?
For gien God be love, hell maun be hate.

My bairn, them 'at winna forgie their enemies, cairries sic a nest o' deevilry i' their ain boasoms, 'at the verra speerit o' God himsel' canna win in till't for bein' scomfished wi' smell an' reik.