'So ye hinna been up by?' said Mrs. Macintyre. 'Are ye gaun?'
'Not to-day. Is Walter well?'
'Ay, he is weel. He's a fine chap, an' he's in terrible earnest aboot something,' said Mrs. Macintyre thoughtfully, as she shook out the garment she had been rubbing. 'There's a something deep doon in thon heart no' mony can see. But the place is no' the place it was to him or to me. What way wull ye no' gang up? Eh, but he wad be fell glad to see ye, my lady'—
'I am not going to-day,' replied Gladys quietly, and even with a touch of coldness. 'You can tell him, if you like, that I was here, and that I hoped he was well.'
'Ay, I'll tell him. And are ye happy, my doo?'
It was a beautiful and touching thing to see the rare tenderness in the woman's plain face as she asked that question.
'Yes, I—I think so,' Gladys replied, but she got up suddenly from her seat, and her voice gave a suspicious tremor. 'Money can do a great deal, Mrs. Macintyre, but it cannot do everything—not everything.'
'Aweel, no. I dinna pray muckle,—there's no' muckle encouragement for sic releegious ordinances this airt,—but I whiles speir at the Lord no' to mak' siller a wecht for ye to cairry. Weel, are ye awa?'
'Yes; good-bye. When you come down to Bourhill, after I come back, we'll have long talks. I shall be so glad to have you there.'
'Aweel, wha wad hae thocht it? Ye'll no' rue'd, my doo, if I'm spared, that's a' the thanks I can gie. An' wull ye no' gang up by?'