made any noise, for I could not move, but he started up with a cry to God to preserve him, set the cup on the table, threw something over it, caught up a wicked-looking knife, and turned round. His face was like that of a corpse, and I could see him tremble. I stood steady; it was no time then to turn away. I supposed he expected to see a robber, and would be glad when he discovered it was only me; but when he did his fear changed to anger, and he came at me. His eyes were flaming, and he looked as if he would kill me. I was not frightened--poor old man, I was able for him any day!--but I was afraid of hurting him. So I closed the door quickly, and went softly to my own room, where I stood a long time in the dark, listening, but heard nothing more. What am I to do, Andrew?” “I don't know that you have to do anything. You have one thing not to do, that is--tell anybody what you have seen.” “I was forced to tell _you_ because I did not know what to do. It makes me _so_ sorry!” “It was no fault of yours. You acted to the best of your knowledge, and could not help what came of it. Perhaps nothing more will come. Leave the thing alone, and if he say anything tell him how it happened.” “But, Andrew, I don't think you see what it is that troubles me. I am afraid my master is a miser. The mistress and he take their meals, like poor people, in the kitchen. That must be the dining-room of the house!--and though my eyes were tethered to the flashing cup, I could not help seeing it was full of strange and beautiful things. Among them, I knew, by pictures I had seen, the armor of knights, when they fought on their horses' backs. Before people had money they must have misered other things. Some girls miser their clothes, and never go decent!” “Suppose him a miser,” said Andrew, “what could you do? How are you to help it?” “That's what I want to know. I love my master, and there must be a way to help it. It was terrible to see him, in the middle of the night, gazing at that cup as if he had found the most precious thing that can ever have existed on the earth.” “What was that?” asked Andrew. He delighted in Dawtie's talk. It was like an angel's, he said, both in its ignorance and its wisdom. “You can't have forgotten, Andrew. It's impossible!” she answered. “I heard you say yourself!” Andrew smiled. “I know,” he said. “Poor man!” resumed Dawtie; “he looked at the cup as you might at that manuscript! His soul was at it, feasting upon it! Now wasn't that miserly?” “It was like it.” “And I love my master,” repeated Dawtie, thus putting afresh the question what she was to do. “Why do you love him, Dawtie?” asked Andrew. “Because I'm set to love him. Besides, we're told to love our enemies--then surely we're to love our friends. He has always been a friend to me. He never said a hard word to me, even when I was handling his books. He trusts me with them! I can't help loving him--a good deal, Andrew! And it's what I've got to do!”