Mr Cowie was greatly
distressed. He drew her between his knees, laid his cheek against hers,
as was his way with children, and said with soothing tenderness:
"Walawa! what's the matter with my dawtie?"
After some vain attempts at speech, Annie succeeded in giving the
following account of the matter, much interrupted with sobs and fresh
outbursts of weeping.
"Ye see, sir, I gaed last nicht to the missionar kirk to hear Mr Broon.
And he preached a gran' sermon, sir. But I haena been able to bide
mysel' sin' syne. For I doobt I'm ane o' the wicked 'at God hates, and
I'll never win' to haven at a', for I canna help forgettin' him whiles.
An' the wicked'll be turned into hell, and a' the nations that forget
God. That was his text, sir. And I canna bide it."
In the bosom of the good man rose a gentle indignation against the
schismatics who had thus terrified and bewildered that sacred being, a
maid-child. But what could he say? He thought for a moment, and betook
himself, in his perplexity, to his common sense.
"You haven't forgotten your father, have you, Annie?" said he.
"I think aboot him maist ilka day," answered Annie.
"But there comes a day now and then when you don't think much about
him, does there not?"
"Yes, sir.
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