“Fortune came smiling to the maid, and woo’d her”
Life would be but a mean abode for men and women if they could not open the windows of their souls and look beyond it. During the weeks which immediately followed Janet Caird’s association with Maggie she felt this truth, though she did not define the feeling to herself. She only realized the comfort of withdrawing from the fretful presence of her aunt to the contemplative, passionless serenity of the Word of God. But even this was an offence. “What are you doing at a’, Maggie?” was the certain inquiry if she went to the quiet of her own room for an hour.
“I’m reading the Book a wee, Aunt Janet.”
The comments upon this reply varied, according to Janet’s temper. Sometimes it was, “Well, the gude ken, you need to read it.” Again it would be, “Havers! Hoo can the like o’ you understand it, and no man body to gie you the sense?” And if the volume happened to be one from Allan’s small library, her railing at “no-vels and the sin o’ them” was unstinted.
But the real cause of difference between the women was far beyond Maggie’s knowledge or power to alter. It had sprung up the very hour that David asked her to come to Pittenloch and be a companion to his sister. No sooner had he left her than she began to consider in what light the proposition could bring her personally the most respect and sympathy, and a neighbor coming in at the moment, she found in her own small boast the key-note of her future treatment of her niece.
“I hae been called for, Mistress Futtrit, a’ the road to Pittenloch,” she said, with a sigh; “my nephew is settled for the ministry—an’ nae less—and I maun just gae and tak’ the guiding o’ his sister and his hoose.”
“You’re auld to be fashed wi’ a bairn noo, Mistress Caird.”
“Na, na, it isna a bairn; Maggie Promoter is a braw, handsome lass, wi’ mair lovers than she has fingers and toes.”
“But that’s waur than a bairn. You’ll be worn oot wi’ the care o’ it. I ken by the heartaches my ain Baubie gied me. Early and late she keepit me in het water.”