s a sang-buik that I want the
len' o'."

Now the minister was one of an old school--a very worthy kind-hearted
man, with nothing of what has been called _religious experience_. But
he knew what some of his Lord's words meant, and amongst them certain
words about little children. He had a feeling likewise, of more
instinctive origin, that to be kind to little children was an important
branch of his office. So he drew Annie close to him, as he sat in his
easy-chair, laid his plump cheek against her thin white one, and said
in the gentlest way:

"And what do you want a song-book for, dawtie?"

"To learn bonnie sangs oot o', sir. Dinna ye think they're the bonniest
things in a' the warl',--sangs, sir?"

For Annie had by this time learned to love ballad-verse above
everything but Alec and Dowie.

"And what kind o' sangs do ye like?" the clergyman asked, instead of
replying.

"I like them best that gar ye greit, sir."

At every answer, she looked up in his face with her open clear blue
eyes. And the minister began to love her not merely because she was a
child, but because she was this child.

"Do ye sing them?" he asked, after a little pause of pleased gazing
into the face of the child.

"Na, na; I only say them. I dinna ken the tunes o' them."

"And do you say them to Mr Bruce?"

"Mr Bruce, sir! Mr Bruce wad say I was daft. I wadna say a sang to him,
sir, for--for--for a' the sweeties i' the shop."

"Well, who do you say them to?"

"To Alec Forbes and Willie Macwha. They're biggin a boat, sir; and they
like to hae me by them, as they big, to say sangs to them. And I like
it richt weel."

"It'll be a lucky boat, surely," said the minister, "to rise to the
sound of rhyme, like some old Norse war-ship."

"I dinna ken, sir," said Annie, who certainly did not know what he
meant.

Now the minister's acquaintance with any but the classic poets was very
small indeed; so that, when he got up and stood before his
book-shelves, with the design of trying what he could do for her, he
could think of nobody but Milton.

So he brought the _Paradise Lost_ from its place, where it had not been
disturbed for years, and placing it before her on the table, for it was
a quarto copy, asked her if that would do. She opened it slowly and
gently, with a reverential circumspection, and for the space of about
five minutes, remained silent over it, turning leaves, and tasting, and
turning, and tasting again. At length, with one