kitchen-door where there was a hen trying to keep her chicks out of the
rain. There were voices of children at play and of a woman as if
crooning a babe to sleep. I stood a while before I ventured to knock.
There was no answer and after waiting a few minutes I knocked again. A
boy of my own age opened the door. An old woman came towards me and
asked what I wanted. I am cold, I said, and, please, might I warm
myself? She was deaf and did not catch what I said. 'Whose bairn are
you?' she asked me. Mary Askew's, I replied, I noticed the younger woman
who had the child in her lap fixed her gaze on me. Where are you from?
grannie asked. From Glasgow and I am so cold. Laying down the child in
the cradle, the younger woman came to me and sitting on a stool took my
hands. 'Where did your mother belong?' she asked in a kind voice. She
came from the parish of Dundonald. 'And where is your father?' He is
dead. 'And is your mother in Glasgow?' She died in the hospital, and the
thought of that sad time set the tears running down my cheeks. 'You poor
motherless bairn!' she exclaimed, 'can it be you are the child of my old
school companion? Have you any brothers or sisters?' No, I have nobody
in the world. 'Did your mother leave you nothing?' In my simplicity, not
understanding she meant worldly gear, I untied my bundle, uncovered the
cloth I had wrapped round it to keep it dry, and handed her the bible.
She looked at the writing. 'I remember when she got it, as a prize for
repeating the 119th psalm without missing a word.' Putting her arms
round my neck she kissed me and holding me to the light she said 'You
have your mother's eyes and mouth.'

The boy and girl took me to the fire, and, when grannie was got to
understand who I was, she bustled round to heat over some of the broth
left from dinner and while it was warming the little girl forced her
piece into my mouth. The other boy came to me full of curiosity. Feeling
my legs he whispered, You're starvit. By-and-by a cart drove into the