"Gang awa, Andy Ferguson, awa, for I will na listen to sic words anent my ain dear father. Awa, I say," she repeated, waving her little hand, as he seemed inclined to follow her.
"Sin' ye will na believe me, gae ask him what he has done wi' the laird's siller and gowd. Just speir him that," called Andy after her, and then he strode away down the glen.
She hastened on, and leaving her few sheep to wander at their will, she sought her father. She found him sitting on a knoll behind the byre, leaning his head on his hands. Throwing herself on the grass beside him, she told him of her interview with Andy, his offer of marriage and her refusal.
"I hope ye did na anger him," said he, hastily.
"Why, father, what ill can his anger do us? Ye wad na ha'e me marry a ne'er-do-weel, like Andy. And, father, I ha'e na told ye all. He called ye a thief, father, a thief. I knew it was a lee, a wicked lee. Dinna think your little Nannie believed it. And then he bade me speir what ye had done wi' the laird's siller and gowd."
To her great grief and surprise, her father sunk his face in his hands again with a low groan, but answered not a word.
"Winna ye speak to me and tell me what it a' means?" said she, twining her arms over his shoulder.
"Sin' ye maun know, then, it is true; a' true that he tauld ye. O, my bonnie bairn!" said he, in a tone of ineffable sadness. And then he told her how he had found the treasure, and of the sinful compact he had made with Andy.
"But ye ha'e kept it a' safe, dear father?" cried Nannie, joyfully.
"A' safe. I ha'e not sae much as ta'en it frae the box."