Maggie fired in a moment. “A good feyther makes a good son,” she answered almost pertly; and then, with infinite tenderness, “and I'm prayin' a good wife'll make a good husband.” He smiled scoffingly. “I'm feared that'll no help ye much,” he said. But the girl never heeded this last sneer, so set was she on her purpose. She had heard of the one tender place in the heart of this little man with the tired face and mocking tongue, and she resolved to attain her end by appealing to it. “Yo' loved a lass yo'sel' aince, Mr. M'Adam,” she said. “Hoo would yo' ha' felt had she gone away and left yo'? Yo'd ha' bin mad; yo' know yo' would. And, Mr. M'Adam, I love the lad yer wife loved.” She was kneeling at his feet now with both hands on his knees, looking up at him. Her sad face and quivering lips pleaded for her more eloquently than any words. The little man was visibly touched. “Ay, ay, lass, that's enough,” he said, trying to avoid those big beseeching eyes which would not be avoided. “Will ye no tell me?” she pleaded. “I canna tell ye, lass, for why, I dinna ken,” he answered querulously. In truth, he was moved to the heart by her misery. The girl's last hopes were dashed. She had played her last card and failed. She had clung with the fervor of despair to this last resource, and now it was torn from her. She had hoped, and now there was no hope. In the anguish of her disappointment she remembered that this was the man who, by his persistent cruelty, had driven her love into exile. She rose to her feet and stood back. “Nor ken, nor care!” she cried bitterly. At the words all the softness fled from the little man's face. “Ye do me a wrang, lass; ye do indeed,” he said, looking up at her with an assumed ingenuousness which, had she known him better, would have warned her to beware. “Gin I kent where the lad was I'd be the vairy first to let you, and the p'lice, ken it too; eh, Wullie! he! he!” He chuckled at his wit and rubbed his knees, regardless of the contempt blazing in the girl's face. “I canna tell ye where he is now, but ye'd aiblins care to hear o' when I saw him last.” He turned his chair the better to address her. “Twas like so: I was sittin' in this vairy chair it was, asleep, when he crep' up behind an' lep' on ma back. I knew naethin' o't till I found masel' on the floor an' him kneelin' on me. I saw by the look on him he was set on finishin' me, so I said--” The girl waved her hand at him, superbly disdainful. “Yo' ken yo're lyin', ivery word o't,” she cried. The little man hitched his trousers, crossed his legs, and yawned. “An honest lee for an honest purpose is a matter ony man may be proud of, as you'll ken by the time you're my years, ma lass.” The girl slowly crossed the room. At the door she turned. “Then ye'll no tell me wheer he is?” she asked with a heart-breaking trill in her voice. “On ma word, lass, I dinna ken,” he cried, half passionately.