“Ye are, sir; and mair—afore the morn’s mornin, I winna pass a word wi’ her upo the subjeck.” “Thank you, sir,” returned the minister, and took his leave. “A fine lad! a fine lad!” said the soutar aloud to himself, as he resumed the work for a moment interrupted,—“but no clear—no crystal-clear—no clear like the Son o’ Man!” He looked up, and saw his daughter in the doorway. “No a word, lassie!” he cried. “I’m no for ye this meenute.—No a word to me aboot onything or onybody the day, but what’s absolute necessar!” “As ye wull! father,” rejoined Maggie.—“I’m gaein oot to seek auld Eppy; she was intil the baker’s shop a meenute ago!—The bairnie’s asleep.” “Vera weel! Gien I hear him, I s’ atten’ til ’im,” answered the soutar. “Thank ye, father,” returned Maggie, and left the house. But the minister, having to start that same afternoon for Deemouth, and feeling it impossible, things remaining as they were, to preach at his ease, had been watching the soutar’s door: he saw it open and Maggie appear. For a moment he flattered himself she was coming to look for him, in order to tell him how sorry she was for her late behaviour to him. But her start when first she became aware of his presence, did not fail, notwithstanding his conceit, to satisfy him that such was not her intent. He made haste to explain his presence. “I’ve been waiting all this time on the chance of seeing you, Margaret!” he said. “I am starting within an hour or so for Deemouth, but could not bear to go without telling you that your father has no objection to my saying to you what I please. He means to have a talk with you to-morrow morning, and as I cannot possibly get back from Deemouth before Monday, I must now express the hope that he will not succeed in persuading you to doubt the reality of my love. I admire your father more than I can tell you, but he seems to hold the affections God has given us of small account compared with his judgment of the strength and reality of them.” “Did he no tell ye I was free to do or say what I liked?” rejoined Maggie rather sharply. “Yes; he did say something to that effect.” “Then, for mysel, and i’ the name o’ my father, I tell ye, Maister Bletherwick, I dinna care to see ye again.” “Do you mean what you say, Margaret?” rejoined the minister, in a voice that betrayed not a little genuine emotion. “I do mean it,” she answered. “Not if I tell you that I am both ready and willing to take the child and bring him up as my own?” “He wouldna _be_ yer ain!” “Quite as much as yours!” “Hardly,” she returned, with a curious little laugh. “But, as I daur say my father tellt ye, I canna believe ye lo’e God wi’ a’ yer hert.” “Dare you say that for yourself, Margaret?” “No; but I do want to love God wi’ my whole hert. Mr. Bletherwick, are ye a rael Christian? Or are ye sure ye’re no a hypocreet? I wad like to ken. But I dinna believe ye ken yersel!” “Well, perhaps I do not. But I see there is no occasion to say more!”