“Yo', indeed!” she broke in contemptuously. “Yo'! 'twas Owd Bob reskied her. Yo'd nowt' to do wi' it, 'cept lookin' on—'bout what yo're fit for.”
“I tell yo',” David pursued stubbornly, “an it had not bin for me yo' wouldn't have no sister by noo. She'd be lyin', she would, pore little lass, cold as ice, pore mite, wi' no breath in her. An' when yo' dad coom home there'd be no Wee Anne to rin to him, and climb on his knee, and yammer to him, and beat his face. An he'd say, 'What's gotten to oor Annie, as I left wi' yo'?' And then yo'd have to tell him, 'I never took no manner o' fash after her, dad; d'reckly yo' back was turned, I—'”
The girl sat down, buried her face in her apron, and indulged in the rare luxury of tears.
“Yo're the cruellest mon as iver was, David M'Adam,” she sobbed, rocking to and fro.
He was at her side in a moment, tenderly bending over her.
“Eh, Maggie, but I am sorry, lass—”
She wrenched away from beneath his hands.
“I hate yo',” she cried passionately.
He gently removed her hands from before her tear-stained face.
“I was nob'but laffin', Maggie,” he pleaded; “say yo' forgie me.”