“Mr Rainy!” cried she, faintly, thinking of that day.
“Eh! woman, but I am glad to see you after all this time. Where have you been since that sorrowful day? I was just thinking about you as I came down the street. I must believe in a special Providence after this. I was just saying to myself that I would give a five-pound note, and maybe twa, if I could but put my hand on Allison Bain. And lo! here ye are. And, Allison, my woman, if your father could speak to you, he would say, ‘Put yourself into my old friend’s hand, and be advised and guided by him, and ye’ll never have cause to repent it.’ And now I say it for him.”
Allison shook her head.
“I cannot do that—blindly. I need neither the help nor the guidance that you would be likely to give me. I must go my way with the child.”
“The child! Ah! yes, I see, and a bonny little creature she is,” said Mr Rainy, offering his hand to Marjorie. “And whose child may she be?”
“She is the child of my master and mistress. I have been in service all this time, and I need help from no one.”
“In service! Yes, and among decent folk, I’ll be bound! Well! well! And doubtless you will be able to account for every day and hour that has gone by since you—were lost sight of. That is well.”
“It might be well if there were any one who had a right to call me to account,” said Allison, coldly.
Mr Rainy had turned with them, and they were walking down the street together.
“A right? The less said about rights the better. But this I will say, you have a right to look upon me as a friend, as your father did before you. And I have a right to expect it from you. Your father trusted me, and it will be for your good to trust me likewise.”