which is very cold, and you shall get to the Scotch fire, warmer than any
sun of Italy or Spain.

His lordship had risen to go. The old wife had seemed absorbed in her own
grief; she now dried her tears.

"Bide ye, sirr," said she, "till I thank ye."

So she began to thank him, rather coldly and stiffly.

"He says ye are a lord," said she; "I dinna ken, an' I dinna care; but
ye're a gentleman, I daur say, and a kind heart ye hae."

Then she began to warm.

"And ye'll never be a grain the poorer for the siller ye hae gien me; for
he that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord."

Then she began to glow.

"But it's no your siller; dinna think it--na, lad, na! Oh, fine! I ken
there's mony a supper for the bairns and me in yon bits metal; but I
canna feel your siller as I feel your winsome smile--the drop in your
young een--an' the sweet words ye gied me, in the sweet music o' your
Soothern tongue, Gude bless ye!" (Where was her ice by this time?) "Gude
bless ye! and I bless ye!"

And she did bless him; and what a blessing it was; not a melodious
generality, like a stage parent's, or papa's in a damsel's novel. It was
like the son of Barak on Zophim.