more he sounded the depths of his ignorance and the greater the heights which Allan had a glimpse of far above him, the sadder were his regrets at the lost years, and the poor scraps and edges of his days that he could now give. At first his progress was slow, and he felt depressed rather than exhilarated.
"Dear me! Allan, my man," said his mother to him one day, "I thought all this work wi' books was to make ye as happy as a king, but for a' the lot that ye've got, and a' the pains and patience Amy takes wi' ye, here seems to be mair gloom on your brow than I e'er saw wi' the hardest day's work ye ever did. It's no behaving weel to Amy, poor thing, that's doing the best she can for you, to be so dissatisfied. If the Almighty has na given you the capacity for books that he has for other things, it behoves you to be satisfied with your gifts, an no to try to gar water run up hill."
"But I can't be satisfied, mother," said Allan; "not till I try harder, at any rate. I ought to understand this."
"'Deed, Allan, I think ye are just trying to learn owre muckle, and what gangs in at ae lug just gangs out at the other. It was all very weel for Mr. Staunton, poor man, that had his bread to get by it, and poor bread I doubt it was, to learn this, that, and the other, but for you who'll have
