Margaret took from her pocket a piece of knitting. It was a shawl twelve yards round, yet of such exquisite texture that she drew it easily through a wedding ring. Beautiful it was as the most beautiful lace, and the folds of fine wool fell infinitely softer than any fold of fine flax could do. It was a marvelous piece of handiwork, and Dr. Balloch praised it highly.
“I am going to send it to the Countess of Zetland,” she said. “I have no doubt she will send me as many orders as I can fill. Each shawl is worth £7, and I can also do much coarser work, which I shall sell at the Foy.”
“Would thou not rather work for me than for the Countess?”
“Thou knowest I would, ten thousand times rather. But how can I work for thee?”
“What is there, Margaret, on the long table under the window?”
“There is a large pile of newspapers and magazines and books.”
“That is so. None of these have I been able to read, because my sight has failed me very much lately. Yet I long to know every word that is in them. Wilt thou be eyes to an old man who wishes thee only well, Margaret? Come every day, when the weather and thy health permits, and read to me for two hours, write my letters for me, and do me a message now and then, and I will cheerfully pay thee £50 a year.”
“I would gladly do all this without money, and think the duty most honorable.”
“Nay, but I will pay thee, for that will be better for thee and for me.”