But a strange thing was, that out of this pitiful tenderness seemed to grow, like its blossom, another unlike feeling--namely, that he was in the presence of a being of some order superior to his own, one to whom he would have to listen if he spoke, who knew more than he would tell.

But then Donal was a Celt, and might be a poet, and the sweet stillness of the child's atmosphere made things bud in his imagination.
My reader must think how vastly, in all his poverty, Donal was Gibbie's superior in the social scale.

He earned his own food and shelter, and nearly four pounds a year besides; lived as well as he could wish, dressed warm, was able for his work, and imagined it no hardship.

Then he had a father and mother whom he went to see every Saturday, and of whom he was as proud as son could be--a father who was the priest of the family, and fed sheep; a mother who was the prophetess, and kept the house ever an open refuge for her children.
Poor Gibbie earned nothing--never had earned more than a penny at a time in his life, and had never dreamed of having a claim to such penny.

Nobody seemed to care for him, give him anything, do anything for him.