s dandled on my knees, and sobbed out his
sorrows i' my arms. I want the bairn you were aye girding and
grumbling at! that got the rod for this, and the hard word and the
black look for that! My bonnie Davie, wha ne'er had a playtime nor a
story-book! O gudeman, I want my bairn! I want my bairn!"

The repressed passion and sorrow of ten long years had found an outlet
and would not be controlled. Andrew laid down his pipe in amazement
and terror, and for a moment he feared his wife had lost her senses.
He had a tender heart beneath his stern, grave manner, and his first
impulse was just to take the sobbing mother to his breast and promise
her all she asked. But he did not do it the first moment, and he could
not the second. Yet he did rise and go to her, and in his awkward way
try to comfort her. "Dinna greet that way, Mysie, woman," he said; "if
I hae done amiss, I'll mak amends."

That was a great thing for Andrew Cargill to say; Mysie hardly knew
how to believe it. Such a confession was a kind of miracle, for she
judged things by results and was not given to any consideration of the
events that led up to them. She could not know, and did not suspect,
that all the bitter truths she had spoken had been gradually forcing
themselves on her husband's mind. She did not know that wee Andrew's
happy face over his story-books, and his eager claim for sympathy, had
been an accusation and a reproach which the old man had already humbly
and sorrowfully accepted. Therefore his confession and his promise
were a wonder to the woman, who had never before dared to admit that
it was possible Andrew Cargill should do wrong in his own household.

CHAPTER II.

The confidence that came after this plain speaking was very sweet and
comforting to both, although in their isolation and ignorance they
knew not what steps to take in order to find Davie. Ten years had
elapsed since he had hung for one heart-breaking moment on his
mother's neck, and bid, as he told her, a farewell for ever to the
miserable scenes of his hard, bare childhood. Mysie had not been able
to make herself believe that he was very wrong; dancing at pretty Mary
Halliday's bridal and singing two or three love-songs did not seem to
the fond mother such awful transgressions as the stern, strict
Covenanter really believed them to be, though even Mysie was willing
to allow that Davie, in being beguiled into such sinful folly, "had
made a sair tumble."

However, Davie