An' ye canna tell what they're
to be till they're made oot. But whether what I tell ye be richt
or no, God maun hae the verra best o' rizzons for 't, ower guid
maybe for us to unnerstan'---the best o' rizzons for Esau himsel', I
mean, for the Creator luiks efter his cratur first ava' (of all).
--And now," concluded Mr Graham, resuming his English, "go to your
lessons; and be diligent, that God may think it worth while to get
on faster with the making of you."
In a moment the class was dispersed and all were seated. In another,
the sound of scuffling arose, and fists were seen storming across
a desk.
"Andrew Jamieson and Poochy, come up here," said the master in a
loud voice.
"He hittit me first," cried Andrew, the moment they were within a
respectful distance of the master, whereupon Mr Graham turned to
the other with inquiry in his eyes.
"He had nae business to ca' me Poochy."
"No more he had; but you had just as little right to punish him
for it. The offence was against me: he had no right to use my name
for you, and the quarrel was mine. For the present you are Poochy
no more: go to your place, William Wilson."
The boy burst out sobbing, and crept back to his seat with his
knuckles in his eyes.
"Andrew Jamieson," the master went on, "I had almost got a name
for you, but you have sent it away. You are not ready for it yet,
I see. Go to your place."
With downcast looks Andrew followed William, and the watchful eyes
of the master saw that, instead of quarrelling any more during
the day, they seemed to catch at every opportunity of showing each
other a kindness.
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