She advanced timidly toward him, holding out her hands.

"Eh, Mr. M'Adam," she pleaded, "I come to ask ye after David." The shawl
had slipped from her head, and lay loose upon her shoulders; and she
stood before him with her sad face, her pretty hair all tossed, and her
eyes big with unshed tears--a touching suppliant.

"Will ye no tell me wheer he is? I'd not ask it, I'd not trouble yo',
but I've bin waitin' a waefu' while, it seems, and I'm wearyin' for news
o' him."

The little man looked at her curiously. "Ah, noo I mind me,"--this to
himself. "You' the lass as is thinkin' o' marryin' him?"

"We're promised," the girl answered simply.

"Weel," the other remarked, "as I said afore, ye're a good plucked un."
Then, in a tone in which, despite the cynicism, a certain indefinable
sadness was blended, "Gin he mak's you as good husband as he mad' son to
me, ye'll ha' made a maist remairkable match, my dear."

Maggie fired in a moment.

"A good feyther makes a good son," she answered almost pertly; and then,
with infinite tenderness, "and I'm prayin' a good wife'll make a good
husband."

He smiled scoffingly.

"I'm feared that'll no help ye much," he said.

But the girl never heeded this last sneer, so set was she on her
purpose. She had heard of the one tender place in the heart of this
little man with the tired face and mocking tongue, and she resolved to
attain her end by appealing to it.

"Yo' loved a lass yo'sel' aince, Mr. M'Adam," she said. "Hoo would yo'
ha' felt had she gone away and left yo'? Yo'd ha' bin mad; yo' know yo'
would. And, Mr. M'Adam, I love the lad yer wife loved." She was kneeling
at his feet now with both hands on his knees, looking up at him. Her sad
face and quivering lips pleaded for her more eloquently than any words.

The little man was visibly touched.

"Ay, ay, lass, that's enough," he said, trying to avoid those big
beseeching eyes which would not be avoided.

"Will ye no tell me?" she pleaded.

"I canna tell ye, lass, for why, I dinna ken," he answered querulously.
In truth, he was moved to the heart by her misery.

The girl's last hopes were dashed. She had played her last card and
failed. She had clung with the fervor of despair to this last resource,
and now it was torn from her. She had hoped, and now there was no hope.
In the anguish of her disappointment she remembered that this was the
man who, by his persistent cruelty, had driven her love into exile.

She r