And a cry broke from Ailie's lips, ringing through the stillness of the death-chamber, but never disturbing the repose of old Job Kippis, lying in his last long sleep,—a cry of "Mother! Mother!"
"Ailie! Why sure it can't be Ailie," said Mary Carter, almost putting the child from her at first, as she scanned her face with trembling eagerness. "Ailie,—why, so it is, but I scarce knowed ye, child,—ye've that grown an' altered."
"O mother, if you had but come home a little earlier—just a little," sobbed Ailie. "He's dead now—gran'father's dead—an' ye'll never be able to thank him."
"Gran'father!" repeated Mary Carter.
"He made me call him so, an' he was more to me nor any real gran'father. Mother, why did ye never come sooner?"
"I couldn't help it. 'Twas no choice o' mine. Who's took care o' ye all these months?"
"Gran'father—old Job Kippis he was," said Ailie sorrowfully, pointing towards the bed. "He's lyin' there. He ain't dead long. Oh, I wish ye'd come sooner, an' could ha' spoken to him."
"Maybe ye haven't a bit of somethin' to give me. I'm famished."
She looked ready to drop, and Leveson, coming forwards, told her to sit down on the chair, and desired Ailie to bring food from the cupboard. She ate eagerly, holding Ailie all the while, as if fearing to lose her again, and Leveson said, "It must be almost more than you expected, to find your little girl safe in the old house."
"Indeed, sir, an' I've wondered what could ha' become of her, not a soul to look after her, an' her poor father a-dying the night I went." She heaved a sigh at the recollection.