"And I shall be very grateful to you, aunt," said he. "But it is hardly time yet to speak of such a thing: Mr. Bethune has always had a wonderful constitution."
"Did you notice how reticent the doctor was this morning?" she asked,—and he did not answer.
But at least one thing that Lady Musselburgh had observed and mentioned was true: much, if not all, of the old grandiose manner had gone away from George Bethune. If on rare occasions some flash of defiance flamed up—as if he were still face to face with adversity and disappointment, and determined not to abate one jot of his pride and independence—he was ordinarily quite gentle and even humble, especially towards Maisrie. On this same evening he said—
"Margaret" (as he sometimes called her now, forgetting) "will ye read to me the XLVI. Psalm?"
She went and got the book and began—
"God is our refuge and our strength,
In straits a present aid;
Therefore, although the earth remove,
We will not be afraid:
Though hills amidst the sea be cast;
Though waters roaring make,
And troubled be; yea, though the hills
By swelling seas do shake.
"A river is, whose streams do glad
The city of our God;
The holy place, wherein the Lord
Most high hath his abode.
God in the midst of her doth dwell;
Nothing shall her remove:
The Lord to her our helper will,
And that right early, prove."
But when she had got so far, he said—
"Margaret—I hope ye will not take it ill—if I interrupt ye—it is no unkindness I mean, my lass—but, ye see, ye've got the English speech, as is natural—and I was trying to think how my father used to read out the Psalm at family worship—and ye've not got the Scotch way—nor the strong emphasis—how could ye?—how could ye? Ye'll not take it ill," he went on, with the most piteous concern visible in his face—"ye'll not think it's any unkindness——"
"No, no, no, grandfather!" she said. "Of course not. Shall I ask Mrs. MacGill to come up, to read to you in the Scotch way?"
"No, no one but you, Maisrie—no one but you—perhaps if you take the CXXVI. Psalm—'When Sion's bondage God turned back, as men that dreamed were we'—I mind, they used to sing that to the tune of Kilmarnock—and the young women's voices sounded beautiful. But you're not vexed, Maisrie!—for I did not mean any unkindness to ye, my dear——"