After all, it seemed best that he should go first to Barbara Traill’s. She would give him a cup of tea, and while he drank it he could send one of Glumm’s little lads with a message to Nanna. There was nothing of cowardice in this determination; it was rather that access of reverential love which, as it draws nearer, puts its own desire and will at the feet of the beloved one.
Barbara’s door stood open, and she was putting fresh fuel under the hanging tea-kettle. The smell of the peat smoke was homely and pleasant to David; he sniffed it eagerly as he called out:
“Well, then, mother, good morning!”
She raised herself quickly, and turned her broad, kind face to him. A strange shadow crossed it when she saw David, but she answered affectionately:
“Well, then, David, here we meet again!”
Then she hastened the morning meal, and as she did so asked question after question about his welfare and adventures, until David said a little impatiently:
“There is enough of this talk, mother. Speak to me now of Nanna Sinclair. Is she well?”
“Your aunt Sabiston is dead. There was a great funeral, I can tell you that. She has left all her money to the kirk and the societies; and a white stone as high as two men has come from Aberdeen for her grave. Well, so it is. And you must know, also, that my son has married himself, and not to my liking, and so he has gone from me; and your room is empty and ready, if you wish it so; and–”
“Yes, yes, Barbara! Keep your room for me, and I will pay the price of it.”
“I will do that gladly; and as for the price, we shall have no words about that.”