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.
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