He knelt still
and sighed sore.
At length another knock came, which although very gentle, he heard and
knew well enough.
"Who's there?" he asked, notwithstanding, with a fresh access of
indignant feeling.
"Annie Anderson," was the answer through the door, in a tone which at
once soothed the ruffled waters of Thomas's spirit.
"Come in," he said.
She entered, quiet as a ghost.
"Come awa', Annie. I'm glaid to see ye. Jist come and kneel doon aside
me, and we'll pray thegither, for I'm sair troubled wi' an ill-temper."
Without a word of reply, Annie kneeled by the side of his chair. Thomas
drew the plaid over her head, took her hand, which was swallowed up in
his, and after a solemn pause, spoke thus:
"O Lord, wha dwellest in the licht inaccessible, whom mortal eye hath
not seen nor can see, but who dwellest with him that is humble and
contrite of heart, and liftest the licht o' thy coontenance upo' them
that seek it, O Lord,"--here the solemnity of the appeal gave way
before the out-bursting agony of Thomas's heart--"O Lord, dinna lat's
cry in vain, this thy lammie, and me, thine auld sinner, but, for the
sake o' him wha did no sin, forgive my sins and my vile temper, and
help me to love my neighbour as mysel'.
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