“I can not bear the strain of thinking!” gasped the laird.
“Then give up thinking, and do the thing! Shall I take it for you?”
She put out her hand as she spoke.
“No! no!” he cried, grasping the cup tighter. “You shall not touch it! You would give it to the earl! I know you! Saints hate what is beautiful!”
“I like better to look at things in my Father's hand than in my own!”
“You want to see my cup—it is my cup!—in the hands of that spendthrift fool, Lord Borland!”
“It is in the Father's hand, whoever has it!”
“Hold your tongue, Dawtie, or I will cry out and wake the house!”
“They will think you out of your mind, and come and take the cup from you! Do let me put it away; then you will go to sleep.”
“I will not; I can not trust you with it! You have destroyed my confidence in you! I may fall asleep, but if your hand come within a foot of the cup, it will wake me! I know it will! I shall sleep with my heart in the cup, and the least touch will wake me!”