“I do believe,” he said, “the laird would rather have lost his whole collection.” “Indeed, sir, I think he would.” “Then you have talked to him about it?” “Yes, I have, sir,” answered Dawtie, sorry she had brought out the question. “And you know the worth of the thing?” “Yes, sir; that is, I don't know how much it was worth, but I should say pounds and pounds.” “Then, Dawtie, I must ask you again, _where is it?_” “I know nothing about it, sir. I wish I did!” “Why do you wish you did?” “Because--” began Dawtie, and stopped short; she shrunk from impugning the honesty of the dead man--and in the presence of his daughter. “It looks a little fishy, don't it, Dawtie? Why not speak straight out? Perhaps you would not mind searching Meg's trunk for me. She may have taken it for a bit of old brass, you know.” “I will answer for my servants, Mr. Crawford,” said Alexa. “I will not have old Meg's box searched.” “It is desirable to get rid of any suspicion,” replied George. “I have none,” returned Alexa. George was silent “I will ask Meg, if you like, sir,” said Dawtie; “but I am sure it will be no use. A servant in this house soon learns not to go by the look of things. We don't treat anything here as if we knew all about it.” “When did you see the goblet first?” persisted George. “Goblet, sir? I thought you were speaking of the gold cup.” By _goblet_ Dawtie understood a small iron pot. “Goblet, or cup, or chalice--whatever you like to call it--I ask how you came to know about it.” “I know very little about it.” “It is plain you know more than you care to tell. If you will not answer me you will have to answer a magistrate.” “Then I will answer a magistrate,” said Dawtie, beginning to grow angry. “You had better answer me, Dawtie. It will be easier for you. What do you know about the cup?” “I know it was not master's, and is not yours--really and truly.” “What can have put such a lie in your head?” “If it be a lie, sir, it is told in plain print.” “Where?” But Dawtie judged it time to stop. She bethought herself that she would not have said so much had she not been angry. “Sir,” she answered, “you have been asking me questions all this time, and I have been answering them; it is your turn to answer me one.” “If I see proper.” “Did my old master tell you the history of that cup?” “I do not choose to answer the question.” “Very well, sir.” Dawtie turned to leave the room. “Stop! stop!” cried Crawford; “I have not done with you yet, my girl. You have not told me what you meant when you said the cup did not belong to the laird.” “I do not choose to answer the question,” said Dawtie. “Then you shall answer it to a magistrate.” “I will, sir,” she replied, and stood. Crawford left the room. He rode home in a rage. Dawtie went about her work with a bright spot on each cheek, indignant at the man's rudeness, but praying God to take her heart in His hand, and cool the fever of it. The words rose in her mind: