"Well, deary?"
Ailie began to cry in good earnest, and Job could not stand that.
"There now, little one, don't ye be feared. I'll keep ye so long's I've a crust to spare ye. 'Tain't much I have o' my own, but ye shall share it, sure enough. We'll wait awhile an' see. I don't make no promises, but we'll just see."
"An' maybe mother 'll come back," said Ailie. "I do love you ever so much. I don't want never to go."
There was no more talk of Ailie leaving. Quietly as before she lived on in old Job's room, sleeping in the closet at night, playing about the house and courtyard during the day. Many a half-hour would Job Kippis win her away from her ragged little playmates, to sit by him as he worked, and learn more and more of the "sweet story of old."
Lettie, too, used to creep in and listen with silent interest to the wondrous tale. Sometimes Job taught them both a short text, but this was hard work to both teacher and scholars, and the Bible stories were preferred. Ailie was always the first to grow restless. Quiet Lettie, with her shrinking from rough and boisterous games, and her love of retired corners, would often sit on and listen when Ailie had rushed away. A silent useful little maiden she was, unlike the children around her, and the one comfort of her careworn adopted mother.
Time passed thus, but nothing more was seen or heard of Mary Carter. November came to an end, and December dragged its slow length along, and still Ailie was motherless. She had almost ceased by this time to expect or hope for any change.
But a change of another kind was threatening, and a cloud was drawing near. The winter was severe, and the frost was sharp, and employment of all kinds was slack. Many men were out of work. John Forsyth's failed, or was only to be obtained by fitful snatches. Job Kippis' wavered, grew uncertain, and finally came to an end.
He could obtain no more. There Was none to be had, seemingly. He was old, and younger men were preferred. His sight had begun to fail of late, perhaps from over-toil on Ailie's account. The little stock of savings, already deeply dipped into, melted away, and want—stern want—stared them in the face.
