Tibbie had come out to bask a little, and, in the dark warmth of the
material sun, to worship that Sun whose light she saw in the hidden
world of her heart, and who is the Sun of all the worlds; to breathe
the air, which, through her prison-bars, spoke of freedom; to give
herself room to long for the hour when the loving Father would take her
out of the husk which infolded her, and say to her: "_See, my child_."
With the rest of the travailing creation, she was groaning in hopeful
pain--not in the pain of the mother, but in the pain of the child, soon
to be forgotten in the following rest.
If my younger readers want to follow Kate and Alec home, they will take
it for a symptom of the chill approach of "unlovely age," that I say to
them: 'We will go home with Tibbie and Annie, and hear what they say. I
like better to tell you about ugly blind old Tibbie than about
beautiful young Kate.--But you shall have your turn. Do not think that
we old people do not care for what you care for. We want more than you
want--a something without which what you like best cannot last.'
"What did the coch stop for, Annie, lass?" asked Tibbie, as soon as the
mail had driven on.
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