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 of hatred more firmly in the laird’s bosom.

Considering the ties o’nature, ane wad have thocht, that the course of time must have blunted his wrath, and reconceeled him to Jạmie; but far otherwise. His speerit had got a bend that could na be straightened; so, instead of relenting, every day appeared to mak him mair inveterately cruel. Twa simmers had passed oure, when the laird received a letter from his son; in which Jamie lamented the step he had taken, and the way they had pairted, hoping that, when he saw him again, as he shortly expectit to do, a’ the past wad be forgotten. The auld neerdoweel had scarcely patience to read the letter thro’, ere he tore it into a thousaud tatters, and stampit them below his feet. “Come hame when ye like, my man,” cried the unnatural father, in the bitterness of his doure rage, “come hame when ye like, ye’se never mair be son of mine. ye have brewed the cup o’ wilful disobedience, and ye maun drink it to the dregs, deevil cares hoo bitter the dregs may be. Forgie ye! faith lad, ye little ken me. I’m no the willow wand to be bowed to your purpose. Do ye hear that?” added he, tapping sand-blind Nancy, his housekeeper, on the shouther, an auld, withered looking witchwife, that deserved a tar-barrel on the top o’ Lommond hill, far better than mony that suffered there: do ye hear that? Our bonny son Jamie is thinking of paying us a veesit soon. Do ye hear