"Summat ails her, sure," said Andy, stupidly watching her a moment or
two, and then going in to kick off his boots and eat his supper, warm on
the range.
The moonlight was cold; he shut it out, and sat meditating over his
cigar for an hour or two before the Quaker came in. When she did, he
went to light her night-lamp for her,--for he had an odd, old-fashioned
courtesy about him to women or the aged. He noticed, as he did it, that
her hair had fallen from the close, thin cap, and how singularly soft
and fine it was. She stood by the window, drawing her fingers through
the long, damp folds, in a silly, childish way.
"Good night, Andrew," as he gave it to her.
"Good night."
She looked at him gravely.
"I wish, lad--Would thee say, 'God bless thee, Jane'? It's long since as
I've heard that, an' there's no one but thee t' 'll say it."
The boy was touched.
"Often I thinks it, Jane,--often. Ye've been good to me these six years.
I was nothin' but a beggar's brat when ye took me in. I mind that,
though ye think I forget, when I'm newly rigged out sometimes. God bless
ye! yes, I'll say it: God knows I will."
She went out into the little passage.
Pages:
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145