The parson was half-way to the door, for he was angry, which was not surprising. But with the latch in his hand he turned, and, lo, there in the middle of the floor, with the child in her arms, stood the beautiful Maggie, as if in act to follow him: both were staring after him.
“Dinna anger him, father,” said Maggie; “he disna ken better!”
“Weel ken I, my dautie, that he disna ken better; but I canna help thinkin he’s maybe no that far frae the waukin. God grant I be richt aboot that! Eh, gien he wud but wauk up, what a man he would mak! He kens a heap—only what’s that whaur a man has no licht?”
“I certainly do not see things as you would have me believe you see them; and you are hardly capable of persuading me that you do, I fear!” said Blatherwick, with the angry flush again on his face, which had for a moment been dispelled by pallor.
But here the baby seeming to recognize the unsympathetic tone of the conversation, pulled down his lovely little mouth, and sent from it a dread and potent cry. Clasping him to her bosom, Maggie ran from the room with him, jostling James in the doorway as he let her pass.
“I am afraid I frightened the little man!” he said.
“’Deed, sir, it may ha’ been you, or it may ha’ been me ’at frichtit him,” rejoined the soutar. “It’s a thing I’m sair to blame in—that, whan I’m in richt earnest, I’m aye ready to speyk as gien I was angert. Sir, I humbly beg yer pardon.”
“As humbly I beg yours,” returned the parson; “I was in the wrong.”
The heart of the old man was drawn afresh to the youth. He laid aside his shoe, and turning on his stool, took James’s hand in both of his, and said solemnly and lovingly—
“This moment I wad wullin’ly die, sir, that the licht o’ that uprisin o’ which we spak micht brak throuw upon ye!”