And syne whan the pain cam' back wi' a terrible stoon, I
jist amaist leuch; an I thoucht that gin he wad brack me a' to bits, I
wad never cry _haud_, nor turn my finger to gar him stent. Noo, ye're
ane o' the Lord's bairns--"
"Eh! I dinna ken," cried Annie, half-terrified at such an assurance
from Thomas, and the responsibility devolved on her thereby, and yet
delighted beyond expression.
"Ay are ye," continued Thomas confidently; "and I want to ken what ye
think aboot it. Do ye think it was a wrang thocht to come into my
heid?"
"Hoo could that be, Thomas, whan it set ye a singin'--and sic a
psalm--'O that men would praise the Lord for his goodness?'"
"The Lord be praised ance mair!" exclaimed Thomas. "'Oot o' the mooth
o' babes and sucklin's!'--no that ye're jist that, Annie, but ye're no
muckle mair. Sit ye doon aside me, and rax ower to the Bible, and jist
read that hunner and saivent psalm. Eh, lassie! but the Lord is guid.
Oh! that men wad praise him! An' to care for the praises o' sic worms
as me! What richt hae I to praise him?"
"Ye hae the best richt, Thomas, for hasna he been good to ye?["]
"Ye're richt, lassie, ye're richt. It's wonnerfu' the common sense o'
bairns.
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