“You make me uneasy, Dawtie!” he said. “What book was it? Let me see it.”
“I will, sir.”
She turned to take it down, but the laird followed her, saying:
“Point it out to me, Dawtie. I will get it.”
She did so. It opened at the plate.
“There is the mark!” she said. “I am right sorry.”
“So am I!” returned the laird. “But,” he added, willing she should feel his clemency, and knowing the book was not a rare one, “it is a book still, and you will be more careful another time! For you must remember, Dawtie, that you don't come into this room to read the books, but to dust them. You can go to bed now with an easy mind, I hope!”
Dawtie was so touched by the kindness and forbearance of her master that the tears rose in her eyes, and she felt strengthened for her task. What would she not have encountered for his deliverance!
“Please, sir,” she said, “let me show you a thing you never perhaps happened to read!” And taking the book from his hand—he was too much astonished to retain it—she turned over the engraving, and showed him the passage which stated that the cup had disappeared from the possession of its owner, and had certainly been stolen.
Finding he said not a word, she ventured to lift her eyes to his, and saw again the corpse-like face that had looked through the chink of the door.