“Fifty pounds for salvage, lasses! is na thaat better than staying cooard-like aside the women?”
“Whisht! whisht!” cried Christie.
“We are in heavy sorrow; puir Liston Cairnie and his son Willy lie deed at the bottom o' the Firrth.”
“Gude help us!” said Sandy, and his voice sank.
“An', oh, Sandy, the wife does na ken, and it's hairt-breaking to see her, and hear her; we canna get her tell't; ye're the auldest mon here; ye'll tell her, will ye no, Sandy?”
“No, me, that' I will not!”
“Oh, yes; ye are kenned for your stoot heart, an' courage; ye come fra' facing the sea an' wind in a bit yawl.”
“The sea and the wind,” cried he, contemptuously; “they be ——, I'm used wi' them; but to look a woman i' the face, an' tell her her mon and her son are drowned since yestreen, I hae na coorage for that.”
All further debate was cut short by the entrance of one who came expressly to discharge the sad duty all had found so difficult. It was the Presbyterian clergyman of the place; he waved them back. “I know, I know,” said he, solemnly. “Where is the wife?”
She came out of her house at this moment, as it happened, to purchase something at Drysale's shop, which was opposite.