"
"I dinna ken what ye mean," answered Annie.
"Ow! na; I daursay no. But ye may jist as weel ken noo, that that ted,
Robert Bruce, has twa hunner poun' odd o' yer ain, lassie; and gin he
doesna use ye weel, ye can jist tell him 'at I telt ye sae."
This piece of news had not the overpowering effect upon Annie which,
perhaps, her aunt had expected. No doubt the money seemed in her eyes a
limitless fortune; but then Bruce had it. She might as soon think of
robbing a bear of her whelps as getting her own from Bruce. Besides,
what could she do with it if she had it? And she had not yet acquired
the faculty of loving money for its own sake. When she rose to take her
leave, she felt little richer than when she entered, save for the kind
words of John Peterson.
"It's ower late for ye to gang hame yer lane, dawtie," said the old
man.
"I'm nae that fleyt," answered Annie.
"Weel, gin ye walk wi' Him, the mirk'll be licht aboot ye," said he,
taking off his Highland bonnet, and looking up with a silent
recognition of the care of _Him_. "Be a gude lass," he resumed,
replacing his bonnet, "an' rin hame as fest's ye can. Gude nicht to ye,
dawtie."
Rejoicing as if she had found her long-lost home, Annie went out into
the deep gloamin feeling it impossible she should be frightened at
anything.
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