"
"Do you think he would be angry with his child because she was so much
taken up with her books or her play---"
"I never play at onything, sir."
"Well--with learning songs to say to Alec Forbes and Willie Macwha--do
you think he would be angry that you didn't think about him that day,
especially when you can't see him?"
"'Deed no, sir. He wadna be sae sair upo' me as that."
"What would he say, do you think?"
"Gin Mr Bruce war to cast it up till me, he wad say: 'Lat alane the
lassie. She'll think aboot me the morn--time eneuch.'"
"Well, don't you think your Father in heaven would say the same?"
"Maybe he micht, sir. But ye see my father was my ain father, and wad
mak' the best o' me."
"And is not God kinder than your father?"
"He canna weel be that, sir. And there's the Scripter!"
"But he sent his only Son to die for us."
"Ay--for the eleck, sir," returned the little theologian.
Now this was more than Mr Cowie was well prepared to meet, for
certainly this terrible doctrine was perfectly developed in the creed
of the Scotch Church; the assembly of divines having sat upon the
Scripture egg till they had hatched it in their own likeness.
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