to the hunger after righteousness whose very
longings are bliss.

Behind the counter sat the baker's wife, a stout, fresh-coloured
woman, looking rather dull, but simple and honest. She was
knitting, and if not dreaming, at least dozing over her work, for
she never saw the forehead and eyes which, like a young ascending
moon, gazed at her over the horizon of the opaque half of her door.
There was no greed in those eyes--only much quiet interest. He did
not want to get in; had to wait, and while waiting beguiled the time
by beholding. He knew that Mysie, the baker's daughter, was at
school, and that she would be home within half an hour. He had seen
her with tear-filled eyes as she went, had learned from her the
cause, and had in consequence unwittingly roused Mrs. Croale's
anger, and braved it when aroused. But though he was waiting for
her, such was the absorbing power of the spectacle before him that
he never heard her approaching footsteps.

"Lat me in," said Mysie, with conscious dignity and a touch of
indignation at being impeded on the very threshold of her father's
shop.

The boy started and turned, but instead of moving out of the way,
began searching in some mysterious receptacle hid in the recesses of
his rags. A look of anxiety once appeared, but the same moment it
vanished, and he held out in his hand the little drop of amethystine
splendour. Mysie's face changed, and she clutched it eagerly.

"That's rale guid o' ye, wee Gibbie!" she cried. "Whaur did ye get
it?"

He pointed to the kennel, and drew back from the door.

"I thank ye," she said heartily, and pressing down the thumbstall of
the latch, went in.

"Wha's that ye're colloguin' wi', Mysie?" asked her mother, somewhat
severely, but without lifting her eyes from her wires. "Ye maunna be
speykin' to loons i' the street."

"It's only wee Gibbie, mither," answered the girl in a tone of
confidence.

"Ou weel!" returned the mother, "he's no like the lave o' loons."

"But what had ye to say till him?" she resumed, as if afraid her
leniency might be taken advantage of. "He's no fit company for the
likes o' you, 'at his a father an' mither, an' a chop (shop). Ye
maun hae little to say to sic rintheroot laddies."

"Gibbie has a father, though they say he never hid nae mither," said
the child.

"Troth, a fine father!" rejoined the mother, with a small scornful
laugh. "Na, but he's something to mak mention o'! Sic a father,
l