“Is not cleaning the house again a work of supererogation?”
“I dinna ken what kind o’ wark that may be, Sir, but Mither always cleaned the house weel, before the herring came. She’ll be expecting me to do the same thing.”
So the Domine took away the manuscript, and Christine cleaned her house with even extra care, and one night a week afterwards, she sat down to her cup of tea, telling herself that there wasna a speck o’ dust from the roof to the doorstane. “Even the knives and forks shine like siller,” she said, “and the bath-brick board wouldna file the cleanest duster.” She was personally in the same spotless condition, and the little scone, and bit of baked fish, and the cup of tea on the snow white tablecloth, only emphasized this sense of absolute purity.
As she was drinking her tea, Norman lifted the latch and entered, and she greeted him joyfully. “Come awa’ and welcome,” she cried. “I was just longing to see you. Bring a cup and saucer off the rack, laddie, and sit down, and tell me what’s going on in the village.”
“Weel, the great news is the nearness o’ the herrin’. From a’ accounts we may hae them in our bay in a week.”
“I am glad o’ the news.”
“I dinna think you would be carin’.”
“Why shouldn’t I care? I am longing to mak’ 311 some money. I intend to tak’ up my mither’s kippering.”
“I’m glad o’ that. Why should ye let it slip through your fingers? I heard tell that Nancy Baird was thinking o’ taking Mither’s place.”
“She’ll do naething o’ that kind. Mither took pains to fit me for that wark, and I am going to do it wi’ all my might. Norman, what can you do to mak’ it easy for me?”