an' doin' their verra endeevour to
destroy the image o' the Almichty--it wasna muckle o' 't that was left
to blaud. I teuk and throosh them baith."

"An' what cam' o' the image o' the Almichty?" asked Tibbie, with a
grotesque contortion of her mouth, and a roll of her veiled eyeballs.
"I doobt, Thamas," she continued, "ye angert yersel' mair nor ye
quaietit them wi' the thrashin'. The wrath o' man, ye ken, Thamas,
worketh not the richtyisness o' God."

There was not a person in Glamerton who would have dared to speak thus
to Thomas Crann but Tibbie Dyster, perhaps because there was not one
who had such a respect for him. Possibly the darkness about her made
her bolder; but I think it was her truth, which is another word for
_love_, however unlike love the outcome may look, that made her able to
speak in this fashion.

Thomas was silent for a long minute. Then he said:

"Maybe ye're i' the richt, Tibbie. Ye aye anger me; but I wad raither
hae a body anger me wi' tellin' me the trowth, nor I wad hae a' the
fair words i' the dictionar'. It's a strange thing, wumman, but aye
whan a body's tryin' maist to gang upricht he's sure to catch a
dreidfu' fa'. There I hae been warstlin' wi' my ill-temper mair nor
ever I did i' my life afore; and I never i' my days lickit twa laddies
for lickin' ane anither till jist this verra day. And I prayed against
mysel' afore I cam' oot. I canna win at the boddom o' 't."

"There's waur things nor an ill temper, Thamas. No that it's bonnie
ava'. And it's nane like Him 'at was meek and lowly o' hert. But, as I
say, there's waur fauts nor an ill temper. It wad be no gain to you,
Thamas, and no glory to Him whase will's your sanctification, gin ye
war to owercome yer temper, and syne think a heap o' yersel' that ye
had done't. Maybe that's what for yer no allooed to be victorious in
yer endeevours."

"'Deed, maybe, Tibbie," said Thomas solemnly. "And I'm some doobtfu'
forbye, whether I mayna be tryin' to ripe oot the stockin' frae the
wrang en' o' 't. I doobt the fau't's nae sae muckle i' my temper as i'
my hert. It's mair love that I want, Tibbie. Gin I lo'ed my neebor as
mysel', I cudna be sae ill-natert till him; though 'deed, whiles, I'm
angry eneuch at mysel'--a hantle waur nor at him."

"Verra true, Thamas," answered Tibbie. "Perfect love casteth oot fear,
'cause there's nae room for the twa o' them; and I daursay it wad be
the same wi' the temper."

"But I'm no gaein' to gie in to