mother since I was born; and yet you can talk to me for hours about her."
"Alice," said the grandmother, making a desperate effort to re-establish her hold upon the girl's affections, "hoo kin ye try me sae? Yer mither wa' my ain bairn—my on'y child; sure I hae much to tell o' her; an' ye are her on'y bairn. Hoo kin ye doot me? Hoo kin ye doot if I hae ony thing pleasant to tell ye I wad na' wait for ye to question me?"
But the effort failed. Alice stood proud and unyielding.
"Grandmother, I do not ask for pleasure—I ask for information. I have a right to know something of my own history—of my own parents. I have been kept blinded long enough. I am no longer a child, to be put aside with a jest or a scolding. I ask you again—will you tell me about my father, or not?"
Alice paused; but there was no answer.
"Grandmother, I am in earnest; will you answer me—yes or no? I must know the truth."
"Ye maun know, did ye say, Allie?
