t him. So still was he, that she began to fear he was
dead, and laid her hand on his heart. It was beating steadily, and
she left him, to make some gruel for him against his waking. Her
soul was glad, for she was ministering to her Master, not the less
in his own self, that it was in the person of one of his little
ones. Gruel, as such a one makes it, is no common fare, but
delicate enough for a queen. She set it down by the fire, and
proceeded to lay the supper for her expected children. The clean
yellow-white table of soft smooth fir, needed no cloth--only horn
spoons and wooden caups.

At length a hand came to the latch, and mother and daughter greeted
as mother and daughter only can; then came a son, and mother and son
greeted as mother and son only can. They kept on arriving singly to
the number of six--two daughters and four sons, the youngest some
little time after the rest. Each, as he or she came, Janet took to
the bed, and showed her seventh child where he slept. 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. Muckle guid wad
ony pardon dee to sic! But ance lat them un'erstan' 'at he canna
forgie them, an' maybe they'll be fleyt, an' turn again' the Sawtan
'at's i' them."

"Weel, but he's no my enemy," said the youth.

"No your enemy!" returned his mother; "--no your enemy, an' sair
(serve) a bairn like that! My certy! but he's the enemy o' the
haill race o' mankin'. He trespasses unco sair against me, I'm weel
sure