"Na, thank ye, Annie. I canna say't. And I wonna say't for a' the dominies in creation." "But he'll lick ye, Alec; an' I 'canna bide it," said Annie, the tears beginning to fill her eyes. "Weel, I'll try--to please you, Annie," said Alec, seeing that the little thing was in earnest. How her heart bounded with delight! That great boy, so strong and so brave, trying to learn a lesson to please her! But it would not do. "I canna min' a word o' 't, Annie. I'm dreidfu' hungry, forbye. I was in a hurry wi' my brakfast the day. Gin I had kent what was comin', I wad hae laid in a better stock," he added, laughing rather drearily. As he spoke he looked up; and his eyes wandered from one window to another for a few moments after he had ceased speaking. "Na; it's no use," he resumed at last. "I hae eaten ower muckle for that, ony gait." Annie was as pitiful over Alec's hunger as any mother over her child's. She felt it pure injustice that he should ever be hungry. But, unable to devise any help, she could only say, "I dinna ken what ye mean, Alec." "Whan I was na bigger than you, Annie, I could win oot at a less hole than that," answered he, and pointed to the open wooden pane in an upper corner of one the windows; "but I hae eaten ower muckle sin syne." And he laughed again; but it was again an unsuccessful laugh. Annie sprang to her feet. "Gin ye could win throu that hole ance, I can win throu't noo, Alec. Jist haud me up a bit. Ye _can_ lift me, ye ken." And she looked up at him shyly and gratefully. "But what will ye do when ye _are_ oot, Annie?" "Rin hame, and fess a loaf wi' me direckly." "But Rob Bruce'll see yer heid atween yer feet afore he'll gie ye a loaf, or a mou'fu' o' cakes either; an' it's ower far to rin to my mither's. Murdoch wad be back lang or that." "Jist help me oot, an' lea' the lave to me," said Annie, confidently. "Gin I dinna fess a loaf o' white breid, never lippen (trust) to me again." The idea of the bread, always a rarity and consequent delicacy to Scotch country boys, so early in the century as the date of my story, was too much for Alec's imagination. He jumped up, and put his head out of one of those open panes to reconnoitre. He saw a woman approaching whom he knew. "I say, Lizzie," he called. The woman stopped. "What's yer wull, Maister Alec?" "Jist stan' there an' pu' this lassie oot. We're a' keepit in thegither, and nearhan' hungert." "The Lord preserve 's! I'll gang for the key." "Na, na; _we_ wad hae to pay for that. Tak her oot--that's a' we want." "He's a coorse crayter--that maister o' yours. I wad gang to see him hangt." "Bide a wee; that'll come in guid time," said Alec, pseudo-prophetically. "Weel I s' hae a pu' at the legs o' him, to help him to jeedgement; for he'll be the deith o' ane or twa o' ye afore lang." "Never min' Murder Malison. Will ye tak oot the bit lassie?" "Od will I! Whaur is she?"