David nodded toward the Dale Cup which rested on the mantelpiece in silvery majesty.
“It's yon done it,” he said. “And if Th' Owd Un wins agin, as win he will, bless him! why, look out for 'me and ma Wullie'; that's all.”
Maggie shuddered, and thought of the face at the window.
“'Me and ma Wullie,'” David continued; “I've had about as much of them as I can swaller. It's aye the same—'Me and ma Wullie,' and 'Wullie and me,' as if I never put ma hand to a stroke! Ugh!”—he made a gesture of passionate disgust—“the two on 'em fair madden me. I could strike the one and throttle t'other,” and he rattled his heels angrily together.
“Hush, David,” interposed the girl; “yo' munna speak so o' your dad; it's agin the commandments.”
“'Tain't agin human nature,” he snapped in answer. “Why, 'twas nob'but yester' morn' he says in his nasty way, 'David, ma gran' fellow, hoo ye work! ye 'stonish me!' And on ma word, Maggie”—there were tears in the great boy's eyes—“ma back was nigh broke wi' toilin'. And the Terror, he stands by and shows his teeth, and looks at me as much as to say, 'Some day, by the grace o' goodness, I'll ha' my teeth in your throat, young mon.'”
Maggie's knitting dropped into her lap and she looked up, her soft eyes for once flashing.
“It's cruel, David; so 'tis!” she cried. “I wonder yo' bide wi' him. If he treated me so, I'd no stay anither minute. If it meant the House for me I'd go,” and she looked as if she meant it.
David jumped off the table.
“Han' yo' niver guessed why I stop, lass, and me so happy at home?” he asked eagerly.