“I know,” he said.
“Poor man!” resumed Dawtie; “he looked at the cup as you might at that manuscript! His soul was at it, feasting upon it! Now wasn't that miserly?”
“It was like it.”
“And I love my master,” repeated Dawtie, thus putting afresh the question what she was to do.
“Why do you love him, Dawtie?” asked Andrew.
“Because I'm set to love him. Besides, we're told to love our enemies—then surely we're to love our friends. He has always been a friend to me. He never said a hard word to me, even when I was handling his books. He trusts me with them! I can't help loving him—a good deal, Andrew! And it's what I've got to do!”
“There's not a doubt about it, Dawtie. You've got to love him, and you do love him!”
“But there's more than that, Andrew. To hear the laird talk you would think he cared more for the Bible than for the whole world—not to say gold cups. He talks of the merits of the Saviour, that you would think he loved Him with all his heart. But I can not get it out of my mind, ever since I saw that look on his face, that he loves that cup—that it's his graven image—his idol! How else should he get up in the middle of the night to—to—to—well, it was just like worshiping it.”
“You're afraid then that he's a hypocrite, Dawtie!”
“No; I daren't think that—if it were only for fear I should stop loving him—and that would be as bad!”