Dawtie broke into a flood of tears—an experience all but new to her—and found it did her good. She smiled as she wiped her eyes, and said:
“Weel, An'rew, gien the Lord hasna appeart in His ain likeness to deliver me, He's done the next best thing.”
“Dawtie,” answered Andrew, “the Lord never does the next best. The thing He does is always better than the thing He does not.”
“Lat me think, an' I'll try to un'erstan',” said Dawtie, but Andrew went on.
“The best thing, whan a body's no ready for 't, would be the warst to gie him—or ony gait no the thing for the Father o' lichts to gie. Shortbreid micht be waur for a half hungert bairn nor a stane. But the minute it's fit we should look upo' the face o' the Son o' Man, oor ain God-born brither, we'll see him, Dawtie; we'll see him. Hert canna think what it'll be like. And noo, Dawtie, wull ye tell me what for ye wouldna lat me come and see ye afore?”
“I wull, An'rew; I was nae suner left to mysel' i' the prison than I faun' mysel' thinkin' aboot you—you first, and no the Lord. I said to mysel', 'This is awfu'. I'm leanin' upo' An'rew, and no upo' the First and the Last.' I saw that that was to brak awa' frae Him that was nearest me, and trust ane that was farther awa'—which wasna i' the holy rizzon o' things. Sae I said to mysel' I would meet my fate wi' the Lord alane, and wouldna hae you come 'atween Him and me. Noo ye hae 't, An'rew.”
Andrew took her in his arms and said:
“Thank ye, Dawtie. Eh, but I am content And she thought she hadna faith. Good-night, Dawtie. Ye maun gane to yer bed, an' grow stoot in hert for the morn.”