“God helpin, I can,” returned the minister. “—But ye’re no i’ the pit yet by a lang road; and oot o’ that road I s’ hae ye, please God, afore anither nicht has darkent!”
“I dinna ken what’s to come o’ me!” again she groaned.
“That we’ll sune see! Brakfast’s to come o’ ye first, and syne my wife and me we’ll sit in jeedgment upo ye, and redd things up. Min’ ye’re to say what ye like, and naither ill fowk nor unco guid sall come nigh ye.”
A pitiful smile flitted across Isy’s face, and with it returned the almost babyish look that used to form part of her charm. Like an obedient child, she set herself to eat and drink what she could; and when she had evidently done her best—
“Now put up your feet again on the sofa, and tell us everything,” said the minister.
“No,” returned Isy; “I’m not at liberty to tell you everything.”
“Then tell us what you please—so long as it’s true, and that I am sure it will be,” he rejoined.
“I will, sir,” she answered.
For several moments she was silent, as if thinking how to begin; then, after a gasp or two,—
“I’m not a good woman,” she began. “Perhaps I am worse than you think me.—Oh, my baby! my baby!” she cried, and burst into tears.