The next evening, that before the trial, Andrew presented himself at the prison, and was admitted. Dawtie came to meet him, held out her hand, and said:

 

“Thank you, Andrew!”

 

“How are you, Dawtie?”

 

“Well enough, Andrew!”

 

“God is with us, Dawtie.”

 

“Are you sure, Andrew?”

 

“Dawtie, I can not see God's eyes looking at me, but I am ready to do what He wants me to do, and so I feel He is with me.”

 

“Oh, Andrew, I wish I could be sure!”

 

“Let us take the risk together, Dawtie!”

 

“What risk, Andrew?”

 

“The risk that makes you not sure, Dawtie—the risk that is at once the worst and the least—the risk that our hope should be in vain, and there is no God. But, Dawtie, there is that in my heart that cries Christ did die, and did rise again, and God is doing His best. His perfect love is our perfect safety. It is hard upon Him that His own children will not trust Him!”

 

“If He would but show Himself!”

 

“The sight of Him now would make us believe in Him without knowing Him; and what kind of faith would that be for Him or for us! We should be bad children, taking Him for a weak parent! We must know Him! When we do, there will be no fear, no doubt. We shall run straight home! Dawtie, shall we go together?”

 

“Yes, surely, Andrew! God knows I try. I'm ready to do whatever you tell me, Andrew!”

 

“No, Dawtie! You must never do what I tell you, except you think it right.”

 

“Yes, I know that. But I am sure I should think it right!”

 

“We've been of one mind for a long time now, Dawtie!”

 

“Sin' lang afore I had ony min' o' my ain!” responded Dawtie, turning to her vernacular¹.

 

“Then let us be of one heart too, Dawtie!”

 

She was so accustomed to hear Andrew speak in figures, that sometimes she looked through and beyond his words.

 

She did so now, and seeing nothing, stood perplexed².

 

“Winna ye, Dawtie?” said Andrew, holding out his hands.

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