Mrs. Cormack stood and stared, now at Maggie, and now at the bundle that lay in her own arms. Tenderly searching in the petticoat, she found at last the little one’s face, and uncovered the sleeping child.
“Eh the puir mither!” she said, and hurriedly covered again the tiny countenance.
“It’s mine!” cried Maggie. “I faund it honest!”
“Its mither may ha’ lost it honest, Maggie!” said Eppie.
“Weel, its mither can come for’t gien she want it! It’s mine till she dis, ony gait!” rejoined the girl.
“Nae doobt o’ that!” replied the old woman, scarcely questioning that the infant had been left to perish by some worthless tramp. “Ye’ll maybe hae’t langer nor ye’ll care to keep it!”
“That’s no vera likly,” answered Maggie with a smile, as she stood in the doorway, in the wakeful night of the northern summer: “it’s ane o’ the Lord’s ain lammies ’at he cam to the hills to seek. He’s fund this ane!”
“Weel, weel, my bonnie doo, it sanna be for me to contradick ye!—But wae’s upo’ me for a menseless auld wife! come in; come in: the mair welcome ’at ye’re lang expeckit!—But bless me, An’rew, what hae ye dune wi’ the cairt and the beastie?”
In a few words, for brevity was easy to him, Andrew told the story of their disaster.
“It maun hae been the Lord’s mercy! The puir beastie bude to suffer for the sake o’ the bairnie!”