"A' the better for that!" persisted Thomas. "They need to be remin't as
well as you and me, that the fashion o' this warld passeth away. Alec,
man, Willie, my lad, can ye big a boat to tak' ye ower the river o'
Deith?--Na, ye'll no can do that. Ye maun gae through that watshod, I
doobt! But there's an ark o' the Covenant that'll carry ye safe ower
that and a waur flood to boot--and that's the flood o' God's wrath
against evil-doers.--'Upon the wicked he shall rain fire and
brimstone--a furious tempest.'--We had a gran' sermon upo' the ark o'
the Covenant frae young Mr Mirky last Sabbath nicht. What for will na
ye come and hear the Gospel for ance and awa' at least, George Macwha?
Ye can sit i' my seat."
"I'm obleeged to ye," answered George; "but the muckle kirk does weel
eneuch for me. And ye ken I'm precentor, noo, forbye."
"The muckle kirk!" repeated Thomas, in a tone of contempt. "What get ye
there but the dry banes o' morality, upo' which the win' o' the word
has never blawn to pit life into the puir disjaskit skeleton. Come ye
to oor kirk, an' ye'll get a rousin', I can tell ye, man. Eh! man, gin
ye war ance convertit, ye wad ken hoo to sing.
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