'No' her. Liz was aye close, as close as yersel',' said his mother rather sarcastically. 'She's aff, onyhoo.'
'Do you think she has gone away with any one—a man, I mean?' asked Walter then, and his face flushed as he asked the question.
'I couldna say, I'm sure,' answered his mother, with a stolid indifference which astonished even him. 'Ye ken as muckle as me; but as she's made her bed she maun lie on't. I've washed my hands o' her.'
'It's long since you washed your hands of us both, mother, so far as interest or guidance goes,' the lad could not refrain from saying, with bitterness. But the reproach did not strike home.
'If it's news ye want, I'll tell ye where ye'll get it,' she said sourly. 'At Teen's. Eh, she's an ill hizzie. If Liz comes to grief, it's her wyte. I canna bide thon smooth-faced, pookit cat. She'll no' show her face here in a hurry.'
'I've a good mind to look in at Teen's, and ask. Where's the old man to-night?'
'Oh, guid kens whaur he aye is. He's on hauftime the noo, an' never sober. Eh, it's an ill world.'
She drew her hands from the suds, wiped them on her wet apron, and, lifting a pint bottle from the chimneypiece, took a long draught.
'A body needs something to keep them up when they've to wash i' the nicht-time,' was her only apology; but almost immediately she became much more talkative, and began to regale Walter with sundry minute and highly-spiced anecdotes about the neighbours' failings, which altogether wearied and disgusted him.
'I'll away, then, mother, and see if Teen knows anything. Liz will maybe write her.'