It was a sore subject with the girl, and well he knew it. Wee Anne, that golden-haired imp of mischief, was forever evading her sister-mother's eye and attempting to immolate herself. More than once she had only been saved from serious hurt by the watchful devotion of Owd Bob, who always found time, despite his many labors, to keep a guardian eye on his well-loved lassie. In the previous winter she had been lost on a bitter night on the Muir Pike; once she had climbed into a field with the Highland bull, and barely escaped with her life, while the gray dog held the brute in check; but a little while before she had been rescued from drowning by the Tailless Tyke; there had been numerous other mischances; and now the present mishap. But the girl paid no heed to her tormentor in her joy at finding the child all unhurt. “Theer! yo' bain't so much as scratted, ma precious, is yo'?” she cried. “Rin oot agin, then,” and the baby toddled joyfully away. Maggie rose to her feet and stood with face averted. David's eyes dwelt lovingly upon her, admiring the pose of the neat head with its thatch of pretty brown hair; the slim figure, and slender ankles, peeping modestly from beneath her print frock. “Ma word! if yo' dad should hear tell o' hoo his Anne--” he broke off into a long-drawn whistle. Maggie kept silence; but her lips quivered, and the flush deepened on her cheek. “I'm fear'd I'll ha' to tell him,” the boy continued, “'Tis but ma duty.” “Yo' may tell wham yo' like what yo' like,” the girl replied coldly; yet there was a tremor in her voice. “First yo' throws her in the stream,” David went on remorselessly; “then yo' chucks her to the pig, and if it had not bin for me--” “Yo', indeed!” she broke in contemptuously. “Yo'! 'twas Owd Bob reskied her. Yo'd nowt' to do wi' it, 'cept lookin' on--'bout what yo're fit for.” “I tell yo',” David pursued stubbornly, “an it had not bin for me yo' wouldn't have no sister by noo. She'd be lyin', she would, pore little lass, cold as ice, pore mite, wi' no breath in her. An' when yo' dad coom home there'd be no Wee Anne to rin to him, and climb on his knee, and yammer to him, and beat his face. An he'd say, 'What's gotten to oor Annie, as I left wi' yo'?' And then yo'd have to tell him, 'I never took no manner o' fash after her, dad; d'reckly yo' back was turned, I--'” The girl sat down, buried her face in her apron, and indulged in the rare luxury of tears. “Yo're the cruellest mon as iver was, David M'Adam,” she sobbed, rocking to and fro. He was at her side in a moment, tenderly bending over her. “Eh, Maggie, but I am sorry, lass--” She wrenched away from beneath his hands. “I hate yo',” she cried passionately. He gently removed her hands from before her tear-stained face. “I was nob'but laffin', Maggie,” he pleaded; “say yo' forgie me.” “I don't,” she cried, struggling. “I think yo're the hatefullest lad as iver lived.” The moment was critical; it was a time for heroic measures.