CHAPTER XXXIII.
A FAITHFUL FRIEND.
he little seamstress was in a quiver of happy excitement, which betrayed itself in her very step as she returned to the kitchen.
Liz lay back in the old basket-chair with her eyes closed, and the deadly paleness of her face was very striking.
'Ye arena weel, Liz,' she said brusquely. 'It's the stair; ye never could gang up a stair, I mind, withoot bein' oot o' breath. Never mind; the kettle's bilin', an' ye'll hae yer tea in a crack.'
She busied herself about the table with nervous hands, astonished at her own agitation, which did not appear to have communicated itself to Liz, her demeanour being perfectly lifeless and uninterested.
Teen's stock of household napery did not include a tablecloth, but, desirous of doing honour to her guest, she spread a clean towel on the little table, and set out the cups with a good deal of cheerful clatter.
'What'll ye tak'? I have eggs, Liz—real country eggs. I brocht them up frae the country mysel',' she said, thinking to rouse the lethargy of her companion. 'I very near said I saw them laid; onyway, I saw the hens that laid them. Ye'll hae an egg, eh?'
'Yes, if ye like. I havena tasted since eleeven this morning, an' then it was only a dram,' said Liz languidly.