Then Janet thought about a cap; but considering him a moment critically, and seeing how his hair stood out like thatch-eaves round his head, she concluded with herself "There maun be some men as weel's women fowk, I'm thinkin', whause hair's gien them for a coverin'," and betook herself instead to her New Testament.
Gibbie stood by as she read in silence, gazing with delight, for he thought it must be a book of ballads like Donal's that she was reading.

But Janet found his presence, his unresting attitude, and his gaze, discomposing.

To worship freely, one must be alone, or else with fellow-worshippers.

And reading and worshipping were often so mingled with Janet, as to form but one mental consciousness.
She looked up therefore from her book, and said-- "Can ye read, laddie ?" Gibbie shook his head.
"Sit ye doon than, an' I s' read till ye." Gibbie obeyed more than willingly, expecting to hear some ancient Scots tale of love or chivalry.

Instead, it was one of those love-awful, glory-sad chapters in the end of the Gospel of John, over which hangs the darkest cloud of human sorrow, shot through and through with the radiance of light eternal, essential, invincible.
Whether it was the uncertain response to Janet's tone merely, or to truth too loud to be heard, save as a thrill, of some chord in his own spirit, having its one end indeed twisted around an earthly peg, but the other looped to a tail-piece far in the unknown--I cannot tell; it may have been that the name now and then recurring brought to his mind the last words of poor Sambo; anyhow, when Janet looked up, she saw the tears rolling down the child's face.