"Ay, weel eneuch," answered Tibbie, with a touch of indignation at the
imputed ignorance. "What for no? What gars ye spier?"
"Ow! I jist wanted to ken."
"Hoo could I no ken? Disna the Saviour say: 'I am the licht o' the
warl?'--He that walketh in Him maun ken what licht is, lassie. Syne ye
hae the licht in yersel--in yer ain hert; an' ye maun ken what it is.
Ye canna mistak' it."
Annie was neither able nor willing to enter into an argument on the
matter, although she was not satisfied. She would rather think than
dispute about it. So she changed the subject in a measure.
"Did ye ever hear o' John Milton, Tibbie?" she asked.
"Ow! ay. He was blin' like mysel,' wasna he?"
"Ay, was he. I hae been readin' a heap o' his poetry."
"Eh! I wad richt weel like to hear a bittie o' 't."
"Weel, here's a bit 'at he made as gin Samson was sayin' o' 't, till
himsel' like, efter they had pitten oot's een--the Phillisteens, ye
ken."
"Ay, I ken weel eneuch. Read it."
Annie read the well-known passage. Tibbie listened to the end, without
word of remark or question, her face turned towards the reader, and her
sightless balls rolling under their closed lids.
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