"Dinna let her tak’ me! Oh, dinna let her tak’ me!" cried Mary, from behind the Sergeant, and holding fast by his coat-tails. "She struck me black and blue; look at my arm," she continued, and she showed him her little thin arm, coloured by Mrs. Craigie. "Ye leein’ cuttie!" exclaimed Mrs. Craigie; "I’ll mak’ ye that ye’ll no clipe fibs on me!" shaking her clenched fist at the unseen Mary. Then, looking the Sergeant in the face, with arms akimbo, she said, "I’ll mak’ you answer for this, ye hypocrite! that hae tried, as I ken, mony a time to beguile Mary frae me. But I hae freens, ay, hae I, freens that wull see justice dune to me, and to _you_ too--that wull they, faix! Black and blue! She fell running frae your ain wicked bird, whan ye were corrupting the young on this verra Sabbath morning. And I said to Mr. Smellie at the kirk-door in the afternoon, when the Session was by, ’Mr. Smellie,’ says I, ’ye gied me a bairn to keep,’ says I, ’and to be brocht up in the fear o’ religion,’ says I; ’but it’s ill to do that,’ says I, ’beside yon Sergeant,’ says I. I did that, that did I; and Mr. Smellie telt me he wad see justice dune me, and dune you, and that ye war afore the Session, and I’m thankfu’ to a kind Providence that’s what _I never was_. Gie me my bairn, I say!" and she made another pounce at Mary, followed by another cry from the child for protection. Katie had retired to the bedroom and shut the door. The Sergeant said, "I’ll keep Mary. Gang hame, Mrs. Craigie. I’ll answer to the Session for you. Nae mair scauldin’ here." And he pressed forward with outstretched arms, gently compelling Mrs. Craigie to retreat towards the door, until she finally vanished with exclamations, and protestations, and vows of vengeance, which need not be here repeated. [Illustration: ’I’LL KEEP MARY’ Page 66] "Sirs, me!" ejaculated Katie, as she came out of her retreat; "that’s awfu’!" "Dinna be frichtened, my wee woman," said the Sergeant, as he led Mary to the fireside. "Warm yer bit feet, and get yer supper, and I’ll gie ye a lesson afore ye gang to yer bed." Mary blew her nose, dried her eyes, and did as she was bid. The Sergeant motioned to his wife to come to the bedroom. He shut the door, and said, "I’ll never pairt wi’ Mary, come what may. My heart tells me this. Get Charlie’s bed ready for her; she’ll lie there, and be our bairn. God has sent her." "I was thinking that mysel’," said Katie; "I aye liked the wee thing, and sae did Charlie." The Sergeant’s lesson was a very simple one, as, indeed, most of his were. He took the child on his knee, and putting on his spectacles, made her read one or two simple verses of Scripture. This night he selected, from some inner connexion, the verse from the Sermon on the Mount:--"Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?"