"Nor I haven't five children o' my own to begin with," responded Job, and the other laughed.
"Well, ye beat me there, I don't deny. But 'twasn't prudent—I sees it now."
"Maybe ye didn't do it for the Master's sake," said Job. "That'd make a mighty difference. I've a mind now to put it this way. I don't make no promises. Maybe I'll send her by and by to the work'us, an' maybe not. Maybe it's the Master's will as I should keep her. Sure, then, He'll give me the means. I'll keep the little deary so long's I've the power, an' when I haven't—why then, sure enough, I'll let her go."
"Doubt but ye won't," muttered John. "Ye've a strong will o' your own."
However, he saw that argument only tended to confirm the old man in his resolution, and he gave it up. Soon after his departure from the room, Ailie came bounding in, with a face of anxiety and suspense, amounting to terror.
"Gran'father, Lettie telled me Mr. Forsyth was come for a talk with you, 'cause he was a-sayin' I ought to be sent to the work'us. Oh, gran'father, please—" and Ailie's black eyes looked unutterably entreating.
"Do ye want for to go, deary?" asked Job.
"I don't want it!" cried Ailie. "Only to wait here till mother comes, an' to keep with you. Won't she come, gran'father?"
"Please God, one day," said Job. "We don't know nought about her. D'ye think I'll get along without my little lamb, an' be happy to think o' her away in the work'us?"
"I think ye'd want me," said Ailie wistfully. "'Cause I do cleanin' up, an'—an'—oh, gran'father, don't ye think—"