Maybe ye're richt. And gin ye _be_ richt, that
accounts for the Transfiguration. He jist lifted the veil aff o' 'm a
wee, and the glory aneath it lap oot wi' a leme like the lichtnin'. But
that munelicht! I can mak naething o' 't."
"Weel, Tibbie, I canna mak you oot ony mair nor ye can the munelicht.
Whiles ye appear to ken a' thing aboot the licht, an' ither whiles
ye're clean i' the dark."
"Never ye min' me, lass. I s' be i' the licht some day. Noo we'll gang
in to the hoose."
CHAPTER LVI.
Murdoch Malison, the schoolmaster, was appointed to preach in the
parish church the following Sunday. He had never preached there, for he
had been no favourite with Mr Cowie. Now, however, that the good man
was out of the way, they gave him a chance, and he caught at it, though
not without some misgivings. In the school-desk, "he was like a maister
or a pope;" but the pulpit--how would he fill that? Two resolutions he
came to; the first that he would not read his sermon, but _commit_ it
and deliver it as like the extempore utterance of which he was
incapable as might be--a piece of falsehood entirely understood, and
justified by Scotch custom; the second, to take rather more than a hint
from the fashion of preaching now so much in favour amongst the
seceders and missionars: he would be a _Jupiter tonans_, wielding the
forked lightnings of the law against the sins of Glamerton.
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