“Aweel, aweel, Jenny woman, hae your ain way! hae your ain way! Eh! but ye’ve had it these forty years and mair! And it’s no likely that ye’ll gie it up now!”
And so saying, the old man put his pipe in his mouth and resigned himself to circumstances.
Mrs. Birney made a cup of tea and a round of toast, and set them on a little stand beside her guest.
“Now eat and drink and ye’ll be better. Nay, nay, dinna shake your poor little head! do as I bid ye. I had a child o’ my ain once. She has been in heaven, I hope, these twenty years. Sae ye see I hae a soft place in my heart for children, especially for lassies; sae eat and drink, and be comforted and strengthened, and then maybe ye’ll tell me how ye came to be out in the weather, and what I can do for ye besides giving you a bit and sup and a bed to lie on,” coaxed the good woman.
“Thanks, thanks,” murmured the girl, as she raised the cup, and with a feverish thirst eagerly drank the tea.
“Try some of the toast. It is done with milk; it will nourish ye,” hospitably urged Jenny.
“Please—I cannot eat a morsel, and—I must go now,” answered the young stranger, rising.
“Go now! Are ye daft?” exclaimed Mrs. Birney, in dismay; while Mr. Birney took the pipe from his mouth and stared.
“No, I am not ‘daft,’ though I know how mad my purpose must seem,” calmly answered the girl, taking her cloak from the chair upon which it was drying by the fire.
“But—I thought ye came here for a night’s lodging, and——”