I canna
tell ye that. But gin I was you, I wad gie her a kiss to begin wi'.
She's nane o' yer brazen-faced hizzies, yon. A kiss wad be the
savin' o' her.'
'But you may be--. But I have nothing to go upon. She would resent
my interference.'
'She's past resentin' onything. She was gaein' aboot the toon like
ane o' the deid 'at hae naething to say to onybody, an' naebody
onything to say to them. Gin she gangs on like that she'll no be
alive lang.'
That night Jessie Hewson disappeared. A mile or two up the river
under a high bank, from which the main current had receded, lay an
awful, swampy place--full of reeds, except in the middle where was
one round space full of dark water and mud. Near this Jessie Hewson
was seen about an hour after Robert had thus pled for her with his
angel.
The event made a deep impression upon Robert. The last time that he
saw them, James and his wife were as cheerful as usual, and gave him
a hearty welcome. Jessie was in service, and doing well, they said.
The next time he opened the door of the cottage it was like the
entrance to a haunted tomb. Not a smile was in the place. James's
cheeriness was all gone. He was sitting at the table with his head
leaning on his hand. His Bible was open before him, but he was not
reading a word. His wife was moving listlessly about. They looked
just as Jessie had looked that night--as if they had died long ago,
but somehow or other could not get into their graves and be at rest.
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