“On your word, Mr. M'Adam” she said with a quiet scorn in her voice that might have stung Iscariot. The little man spun round in his chair, an angry red dyeing his cheeks. In another moment he was suave and smiling again. “I canna tell ye where he is noo,” he said, unctuously; “but aiblins, I could let ye know where he's gaein' to.” “Can yo'? will yo'?” cried the simple girl all unsuspecting. In a moment she was across the room and at his knees. “Closer, and I'll whisper.” The little ear, peeping from its nest of brown, was tremblingly approached to his lips. The little man lent forward and whispered one short, sharp word, then sat back, grinning, to watch the effect of his disclosure. He had his revenge, an unworthy revenge on such a victim. And, watching the girl's face, the cruel disappointment merging in the heat of her indignation, he had yet enough nobility to regret his triumph. She sprang from him as though he were unclean. “An' yo' his father!” she cried, in burning tones. She crossed the room, and at the door paused. Her face was white again and she was quite composed. “If David did strike you, you drove him to it,” she said, speaking in calm, gentle accents. “Yo' know, none so well, whether yo've bin a good feyther to him, and him no mither, poor laddie! Whether yo've bin to him what she'd ha' had yo' be. Ask yer conscience, Mr. M'Adam. An' if he was a wee aggravatin' at times, had he no reason? He'd a heavy cross to bear, had David, and yo' know best if yo' helped to ease it for him.” The little man pointed to the door; but the girl paid no heed. “D'yo' think when yo' were cruel to him, jeerin' and fleerin', he never felt it, because he was too proud to show ye? He'd a big saft heart, had David, beneath the varnish. Mony's the time when mither was alive, I've seen him throw himsel' into her arms, sobbin', and cry, 'Eh, if I had but mither! 'Twas different when mither was alive; he was kinder to me then. An' noo I've no one; I'm alone.' An' he'd sob and sob in mither's arms, and she, weepin' hersel', would comfort him, while he, wee laddie, would no be comforted, cryin' broken-like, 'There's none to care for me noo; I'm alone. Mither's left me and eh! I'm prayin' to be wi' her!'” The clear, girlish voice shook. M'Adam, sitting with face averted, waved to her, mutely ordering her to be gone. But she held on, gentle, sorrowful, relentless. “An' what'll yo' say to his mither when yo meet her, as yo' must soon noo, and she asks yo', 'An what o' David? What o' th' lad I left wi' yo', Adam, to guard and keep for me, faithful and true, till this Day?' And then yo'll ha' to speak the truth, God's truth; and yo'll ha' to answer, 'Sin' the day yo' left me I niver said a kind word to the lad. I niver bore wi' him, and niver tried to. And in the end I drove him by persecution to try and murder me.' Then maybe she'll look at yo'--yo' best ken hoo--and she'll say, 'Adam, Adam! is this what I deserved fra yo'?'”