I gaed in ae day whan I wasna weel; an' she jist ministert to me,
as nane ever did but yersel', mem. An' she was that kin' an'
mither-like to the wee bit greitin' bairnie 'at she had to tak care
o' 'cause her mither was oot wi' the lave shearin'! Her face was
jist like a simmer day, an' weel I likit the luik o' the lassie!--I
met her again the nicht. Ye never saw sic a change. A white face,
an' nothing but greitin' to come oot o' her. She ran frae me as gin
I had been the de'il himsel'. An' the thocht o' you, sae bonnie an'
straucht an' gran', cam ower me.'
Yielding to a masterful impulse, Robert did kneel now. As if
sinner, and not mediator, he pressed the hem of her garment to his
lips.
'Dinna be angry at me, Miss St. John,' he pleaded, 'but be mercifu'
to the lassie. Wha's to help her that can no more luik a man i' the
face, but the clear-e'ed lass that wad luik the sun himsel' oot o'
the lift gin he daured to say a word against her. It's ae woman
that can uphaud anither. Ye ken what I mean, an' I needna say
mair.'
He rose and turned to leave the room.
Bewildered and doubtful, Miss St. John did not know what to answer,
but felt that she must make some reply.
'You haven't told me where to find the girl, or what you want me to
do with her.'
'I'll fin' oot whaur she bides,' he said, moving again towards the
door.
'But what am I to do with her, Robert?'
'That's your pairt. Ye maun fin' oot what to do wi' her.
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