“I am glad John is at hame,” were David’s first words.
“And I would be glad if that were true, Mr Dauvit,” replied she; “but it just happens no to be true. John went off to Kirkaldy at six o’clock this morning to try and get some siller that’s due him there.”
“Let me in to sit down,” muttered David, with a kind of choking in his voice.
And following the good dame into the parlour, Mr Tweedie threw himself into the arm-chair in a condition of great fear and perturbation. Having sat mute for a minute or two, probably to the wonderment of the dame, he began to rub his brow with his handkerchief, as if taking off a little perspiration could help him in his distress.
“Mrs Sprunt,” said he, “I could have sworn that I saw John working in the yard.”
Whereat Mrs Sprunt broke out into a loud laugh, which somehow or another seemed to David as ghostly as his visions; and when she had finished she added, “Something wrong, Dauvit, with your een.”
“Gudeness gracious and ungracious!” said David. “Is this possible? Can it really be? Whaur, in the name o’ Heeven, am I to look for a real flesh-and-blood certainty?”
“And yet ye seem to be sober, Dauvit.”
“As a judge,” replied he. But, after a pause, “Can I be sure even o’ you?” he cried, as he started up; the while his eyes rolled in a manner altogether very unlike the douce quiet character he bore. “Let me satisfy mysel that you are really Mrs Janet Sprunt in the real body.”
And making a sudden movement, with his arms extended towards the woman, he tried to grip her; but it was a mere futile effort. Mrs Sprunt was gone through the open door in an instant, and David was left alone with another confirmation of his dreaded suspicion, muttering to himself, “There too, there too,—a’ alike; may the Lord have mercy upon His afflicted servant! Robina Tweedie, ye were right after a’, and that letter was a delusion like the rest—a mere eemage—a’ eemages thegither.”