satisfied look, "that's the bright
bit, lassie; Kirsty leaves a mark for Ah canna read. Eh, Ah wish Ah
could jist read yon bit. Ah wouldna mind ony ither, but jist yon.
Ah'd like to see hoo it looks." Her wrinkled face quivered pitifully,
but she made a brave attempt to smile. "Read it, laddie," she
whispered.

Scotty took the book and read where his little friend indicated. He
read the Bible every day, and this extract was quite familiar; one
wonderful story among the many of the Master's love and tenderness
towards all the suffering; Luke's beautiful tale of the poor woman who
was bent nearly double and was made whole by the potency of a Divine
word. The boy droned laboriously on, and as he came to the words, "And
Jesus called her to Him," the old woman put out her feeble hand and
caught his arm, her bright brown eyes shining, her withered face
flushed. "Aye!" she whispered eagerly, "d'ye hear yon? D'ye hear yon?
_He called her_! Aye!" she continued with an air of triumph, "that's
it! Sometimes Ah canna quite believe it, but ilka buddy reads it jist
the same; that's it! _He called her Himself_. Aye, an' a' the ither
buddies fleein' aefter Him, an' botherin' Him, but no her, no her! Eh,
wasna yon graund! Go on, laddie, go on!" She made a feeble attempt to
wipe away the tear that coursed down her wrinkled cheek.

"Eh, isna it bonny!" she cried as the boy finished. "Isna it bonny!
Ah suppose Ah'm too auld to learn to read, but Ah'd jist like to read
yon bit," she said wistfully.

Little Isabel went softly to her, and tenderly wiped away the tears
from the poor old face. "There now, Granma MacDonald," she said in the
tender tones she had heard Kirsty use, "you mustn't cry. Maybe
Jesus'll come and make you straight too, won't He?"

"Eh, lassie," she whispered, "Ah'm jist waitin' for it. Ah'm houpin'
He will. Ah'm jist a burden to puir Kirsty, an' whiles the pain's that
bad. Eh, but Ah wish He would. Surely He'd think as much o' me as o'
yon auld buddy. Don't ye think He micht, lassie?"

"Course!" cried the little one with the hopefulness of childhood,
"course He will, won't He, Scotty?"

Scotty hung his head shyly.

"If Granny was here, she would be tellin' you, whatever," he whispered.

"Aye, that's true, mannie," said the old woman brightening, "Marget
McNeil kens aboot Him, aye, she kens fine. Eh, but mebby He will," she
whispered. She lay back and gazed through the little window, away