“But they will not taste a bit like yours, I'm sure,” cried Margaret, in despair.
“Never you fear, lassie. You hurry away home now and get your dinner past, and we will call for you on our way.”
“Here, lassie,” she cried, “your father will like this. It is only churned th' day.” She rolled a pat of butter in a clean linen cloth, laid it between two rhubarb leaves and set it in a small basket.
“Good-bye,” said the girl as she kissed the dark cheek. “You're far too kind to me.”
“Poor lassie, poor lassie, I would I could be kinder. It's a good girl you are, and a brave one.”
“Not very brave, I fear,” replied the girl, as she quickly turned away and ran up the hill and out of sight.
“Poor motherless lassie,” said Mrs. Boyle, looking after her with loving eyes; “it's a heavy care she has, and the minister, poor man, he can't see it. Well, well, she has the promise.”