“Bide ye, sirr,” said she, “till I thank ye.”
So she began to thank him, rather coldly and stiffly.
“He says ye are a lord,” said she; “I dinna ken, an' I dinna care; but ye're a gentleman, I daur say, and a kind heart ye hae.”
Then she began to warm.
“And ye'll never be a grain the poorer for the siller ye hae gien me; for he that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord.”
Then she began to glow.
“But it's no your siller; dinna think it—na, lad, na! Oh, fine! I ken there's mony a supper for the bairns and me in yon bits metal; but I canna feel your siller as I feel your winsome smile—the drop in your young een—an' the sweet words ye gied me, in the sweet music o' your Soothern tongue, Gude bless ye!” (Where was her ice by this time?) “Gude bless ye! and I bless ye!”
And she did bless him; and what a blessing it was; not a melodious generality, like a stage parent's, or papa's in a damsel's novel. It was like the son of Barak on Zophim.
She blessed him, as one who had the power and the right to bless or curse.
She stood on the high ground of her low estate, and her afflictions—and demanded of their Creator to bless the fellow-creature that had come to her aid and consolation.