humiliation he had experienced, he retained as yet
an unlimited confidence in some gifts which he supposed himself to
possess by nature, and to be capable of using with unequalled art. And
true hate, as well as true love, knows how to wait.

CHAPTER XLIV.

In the course of her study of Milton, Annie had come upon Samson's
lamentation over his blindness; and had found, soon after, the passage
in which Milton, in his own person, bewails the loss of light. The
thought that she would read them to Tibbie Dyster was a natural one.
She borrowed the volumes from Mrs Forbes; and, the next evening, made
her way to Tibbie's cottage, where she was welcomed as usual by her
gruff voice of gratefulness.

"Ye're a gude bairn to come a' this gait through the snaw to see an
auld blin' body like me. It's dingin' on (snowing or raining)--is na
't, bairn?"

"Ay is't. Hoo do ye ken, Tibbie?"

"I dinna ken hoo I ken. I was na sure. The snaw maks unco little din,
ye see. It comes doon like the speerit himsel' upo' quaiet herts."

"Did ye ever see, Tibbie?" asked Annie, after a pause.

"Na; nae that I min' upo'. I was but twa year auld, my mither used to
tell fowk, whan I had the pock, an' it jist closed up my een for
ever--i' this warl, ye ken. I s' see some day as weel's ony o' ye,
lass."

"Do ye ken what licht is, Tibbie?" said Annie, whom Milton had set
meditating on Tibbie's physical in relation to her mental condition.

"Ay, weel eneuch," answered Tibbie, with a touch of indignation at the
imputed ignorance. "What for no? What gars ye spier?"

"Ow! I jist wanted to ken."

"Hoo could I no ken? Disna the Saviour say: 'I am the licht o' the
warl?'--He that walketh in Him maun ken what licht is, lassie. Syne ye
hae the licht in yersel--in yer ain hert; an' ye maun ken what it is.
Ye canna mistak' it."

Annie was neither able nor willing to enter into an argument on the
matter, although she was not satisfied. She would rather think than
dispute about it. So she changed the subject in a measure.

"Did ye ever hear o' John Milton, Tibbie?" she asked.

"Ow! ay. He was blin' like mysel,' wasna he?"

"Ay, was he. I hae been readin' a heap o' his poetry."

"Eh! I wad richt weel like to hear a bittie o' 't."

"Weel, here's a bit 'at he made as gin Samson was sayin' o' 't, till
himsel' like, efter they had pitten oot's een--the Phillisteens, ye
ken."

"Ay, I ken weel eneuch. Read it."

Annie read the well-known pas