Annie, however, had a certain Scotchness in her which made her draw
back from the offer.
"Na, thank ye, sir," she said; "I dinna want it."
"Will ye no tak' it to please an auld man, bairn?"
"Deed will I, sir, I wad do a hantle mair nor that to please you."
And again the tears filled her blue eyes as she held out her
hand--receiving in it a shilling which Mr Cowie, for more relief to his
own burdened heart, had substituted for the sixpence.
"It's a shillin', sir!" she said, looking up at him with the coin lying
on her open palm.
"Weel, what for no? Is a shillin' no a saxpence?"
"Ay, sir. It's twa."
"Weel, Annie," said the old man, suddenly elevated into prophecy for
the child's need--for he had premeditated nothing of the sort--"maybe
whan God offers us a saxpence, it may turn oot to be twa. Good nicht,
my bairn."
But Mr Cowie was sorely dissatisfied with himself. For not only did he
perceive that the heart of the child could not be thus satisfied, but
he began to feel something new stirring in his own bosom. The fact was
that Annie was further on than Mr Cowie. She was a child looking about
to find the face of her Father in heaven: he was but one of God's
babies, who had been lying on his knees, receiving contentedly and
happily the good things he gave him, but never looking up to find the
eyes of him from whom the good gifts came.
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