“Eh, Mr. M'Adam,” she pleaded, “I come to ask ye after David.” The shawl had slipped from her head, and lay loose upon her shoulders; and she stood before him with her sad face, her pretty hair all tossed, and her eyes big with unshed tears—a touching suppliant.
“Will ye no tell me wheer he is? I'd not ask it, I'd not trouble yo', but I've bin waitin' a waefu' while, it seems, and I'm wearyin' for news o' him.”
The little man looked at her curiously. “Ah, noo I mind me,”—this to himself. “You' the lass as is thinkin' o' marryin' him?”
“We're promised,” the girl answered simply.
“Weel,” the other remarked, “as I said afore, ye're a good plucked un.” Then, in a tone in which, despite the cynicism, a certain indefinable sadness was blended, “Gin he mak's you as good husband as he mad' son to me, ye'll ha' made a maist remairkable match, my dear.”
Maggie fired in a moment.
“A good feyther makes a good son,” she answered almost pertly; and then, with infinite tenderness, “and I'm prayin' a good wife'll make a good husband.”
He smiled scoffingly.
“I'm feared that'll no help ye much,” he said.
But the girl never heeded this last sneer, so set was she on her purpose. She had heard of the one tender place in the heart of this little man with the tired face and mocking tongue, and she resolved to attain her end by appealing to it.