Ailie attempted to stand up, but in vain. "It's no manner o' use your tryin' to walk without victuals," said Esther. "I'll go an' beg a scrap from some o' the neighbours."
She went off, and soon came back with a good lump of dry bread, which Ailie attacked eagerly, while Mrs. Forsyth endeavoured to force a little through the closed teeth of the old man. It was a vain attempt.
She desisted, and shook her head. "I doubt me but it's too late."
"No, no, he ain't goin' to die," cried Ailie. "O I wish I could get off an' tell the little lady."
Again she started up, but fell back like an infant, and she began to sob.
"Maybe I'd do," said Lettie. "Would I be frightened to go an' speak for ye, Ailie?"
"No, no, there ain't nothin' to frighten ye," said Ailie. "She's ever so kind, is the little lady, an' she'll give ye lots to eat. Only do save a bit for gran'father."
Lettie evidently thought that entreaty superfluous, but she listened to Ailie's instructions, as to where she should go, and how she should act. Mrs. Forsyth proposed that Hor should undertake the errand; but Ailie scouted the idea. "It was little girls as the lady liked to help—it wasn't boys—and Hor wasn't a girl."
So Lettie went off alone, starting at once. The chill air pierced the scanty rags which formed her dress, and her little chilblained hands and feet were painful. But Lettie never cried about pain. She only went on steadily, growing more timid and also more hungry every pace of her way, until she reached the house to which Ailie had directed her.
Her first ring was very feeble; and after waiting a long while, shivering from head to foot in the icy wind, she ventured to give a second pull. This time she was heard. The door opened, and a tall servant looked down impatiently on the small child.