"But I'm feared, I am awfu' feared, woman, that she is but a prodigal
and an--"

"Hush, gudeman! There is mercy for the prodigal daughter as weel as
for the prodigal son;" and at these words Andrew went out with a dark,
stern face, while she turned with a new and stronger tenderness to the
dying woman.

"God is love," she whispered; "if you hae done aught wrang, there's
the open grave o' Jesus, dearie; just bury your wrang-doing there."
She was answered with a happy smile. "And your little lad is my lad
fra this hour, dearie!" The dying lips parted, and Mysie knew they had
spoken a blessing for her.

Nothing was found upon the woman that could identify her, nothing
except a cruel letter, which evidently came from the girl's father;
but even in this there was neither date nor locality named. It had no
term of endearment to commence with, and was signed simply, "John
Dunbar." Two things were, however, proven by it: that the woman's
given name was Bessie, and that by her marriage she had cut herself
off from her home and her father's affection.

So she was laid by stranger hands within that doorless house in the
which God sometimes mercifully puts his weary ones to sleep. Mysie
took the child to her heart at once, and Andrew was not long able to
resist the little lad's beauty and winning ways. The neighbors began
to call him "wee Andrew;" and the old man grew to love his namesake
with a strangely tender affection.

Sometimes there was indeed a bitter feeling in Mysie's heart, as she
saw how gentle he was with this child and remembered how stern and
strict he had been with their own lad. She did not understand that the
one was in reality the result of the other, the acknowledgement of his
fault, and the touching effort to atone, in some way, for it.

One night, when wee Andrew was about seven years old, this wrong
struck her in a manner peculiarly painful. Andrew had made a most
extraordinary journey, even as far as Penrith. A large manufactory had
been begun there, and a sudden demand for his long staple of white
wool had sprung up. Moreover, he had had a prosperous journey, and
brought back with him two books for the boy, AEsop's Fables and
Robinson Crusoe.

When Mysie saw them, her heart swelled beyond control. She remembered
a day when her own son Davie had begged for these very books and been
refused with hard rebukes. She remembered the old man's bitter words
and the child's bitter tears; but she did not r