Down in the hut
she and Wullie would sit round the fire of driftwood, reaching down
dried herrings from the roof and toasting them on spits of wood for
their feast. And they would talk while the sea crept up and down outside
whispering, or dashed almost at the door shrieking.
One night as they sat toasting their fish and watching the salt
driftwood splutter and crackle with blue flames, Marcella asked
Wullie what he thought of philosophic doubt.
"I've been reading a book to father to-day, Wullie, that says we are all
unreal--that we are not here really, but only a dream."
Wullie sat back a little, turned the fish on his spit without speaking,
and then said:
"Well, maybe we are. Maybe all life's a dream. But all the same it is a
dream dreamed by God."
"I think that's what the book says, but they use such hard words."
"I wouldna fash, lassie. There's not much we do understand, any of us.
That's where I think books fall short--they explain things just as far
as the writer understands. And whiles he doesna understand very far, but
he's got a trick of putting things nicely. Most things you know without
understanding: you do them blindly and someday you see they've been
right. That's what I mean about God making us a pathway. I feel that He
has been walking along my life; I couldna prove it to ye, Marcella.
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