"Well, my little maiden, what do you want?"
"Please, sir, wad ye len' me a sang-buik?"
"A psalm-book?" said the minister, hesitatingly, supposing he had not heard aright, and yet doubting if this could be the correction of his auricular blunder.
"Na, sir; I hae a psalm-buik at hame. It's a sang-buik that I want the len' o'."
Now the minister was one of an old school—a very worthy kind-hearted man, with nothing of what has been called religious experience. But he knew what some of his Lord's words meant, and amongst them certain words about little children. He had a feeling likewise, of more instinctive origin, that to be kind to little children was an important branch of his office. So he drew Annie close to him, as he sat in his easy-chair, laid his plump cheek against her thin white one, and said in the gentlest way:
"And what do you want a song-book for, dawtie?"
"To learn bonnie sangs oot o', sir. Dinna ye think they're the bonniest things in a' the warl',—sangs, sir?"
For Annie had by this time learned to love ballad-verse above everything but Alec and Dowie.
"And what kind o' sangs do ye like?" the clergyman asked, instead of replying.
"I like them best that gar ye greit, sir."