'
'I houp that's no a'thegither wantin', grannie. For I love God wi'
a' my hert. But I doobt it's aftener the savin' o' my earthly
father nor the glory o' my heavenly ane that I'm thinkin' o'.'
Mrs. Falconer heaved a deep sigh.
'God grant ye success, Robert,' she said. 'But that canna be richt.'
'What canna be richt?'
'No to put the glory o' God first and foremost.'
'Weel, grannie; but a body canna rise to the heicht o' grace a' at
ance, nor yet in ten, or twenty year. Maybe gin I do richt, I may
be able to come to that or a' be dune. An' efter a', I'm sure I
love God mair nor my father. But I canna help thinkin' this, that
gin God heardna ae sang o' glory frae this ill-doin' earth o' his,
he wadna be nane the waur; but--'
'Hoo ken ye that?' interrupted his grandmother.
'Because he wad be as gude and great and grand as ever.'
'Ow ay.'
'But what wad come o' my father wantin' his salvation? He can waur
want that, remainin' the slave o' iniquity, than God can want his
glory. Forby, ye ken there's nae glory to God like the repentin' o'
a sinner, justifeein' God, an' sayin' till him--"Father, ye're a'
richt, an' I'm a' wrang." What greater glory can God hae nor that?'
'It's a' true 'at ye say. But still gin God cares for that same
glory, ye oucht to think o' that first, afore even the salvation o'
yer father.'
'Maybe ye're richt, grannie. An' gin it be as ye say--he's promised
to lead us into a' trowth, an' he'll lead me into that trowth.
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