It may seem strange that there should be three such children together. But their fathers and mothers had for generations been poor--which was a great advantage, as may be seen in the world by him who has eyes to see, and heard in the parable of the rich man by him who has ears to hear. Also they were God-fearing, which was a far greater advantage, and made them honorable; for they would have scorned things that most Christians will do. Dawtie's father had a rarely keen instinct for what is mean, and that not in the way of abhorrence in others, but of avoidance in himself. To shades and _nuances_ of selfishness, which men of high repute and comfortable conscience would neither be surprised to find in their neighbors nor annoyed to find in themselves, he would give no quarter. Along with Andrew's father, he had, in childhood and youth, been under the influence of a simple-hearted pastor, whom the wise and prudent laughed at as one who could not take care of himself, incapable of seeing that, like his master, he laid down his life that he might take it again. He left God to look after him, that he might be free to look after God. Little Dawtie had learned her catechism, but, thank God, had never thought about it or attempted to understand it--good negative preparation for becoming, in a few years more, able to understand the New Testament with the heart of a babe. The brothers had not long to search before they came upon her, where she sat on the ground at the door of the turf-built cottage, feeding a chicken with oatmeal paste. “What are you doin', Dawtie?” they asked. “I'm tryin',” she answered, without looking up, “to haud the life i' the chuckie.” “What's the matter wi' 't?” “Naething but the want o' a mither.” “Is the mither o' 't deid?” “Na, she's alive eneuch, but she has ower mony bairns to hap them a'; her wings winna cower them, and she drives this ane awa', and winna lat it come near her.” “Sic a cruel mither!” “Na, she's no' cruel. She only wants to gar't come to me! She kenned I would tak it. Na, na; Flappy's a guid mither! I ken her weel; she's ane o' our ain! She kens me, or she would hae keepit the puir thing, and done her best wi' her.” “I ken somebody,” said Andrew, “that would fain spread oot wings, like a great big hen, ower a' the bairns, you an' me an' a', Dawtie!” “That's my mither!” cried Dawtie, looking up, and showing her white teeth. “Na, it's a man,” said Sandy. “It's my father, than!” “Na, it's no. Would ye like to see Him?” “Na, I'm no carin'.” “Sandy and me's gaein' to see Him some day.” “I'll gang wi' ye. But I maun tak' my chuckie!” She looked down where she had set the little bird on the ground; it had hobbled away and she could not see it! “Eh,” she cried, starting up, “ye made me forget my chuckie wi' yer questions! It's mither 'ill peck it!” She darted off, and forsook the tale of the Son of Man to look after her chicken. But presently she returned with it in her hands.