Marmie stared aghast.
"But there was nigh ten pun' in till't," she protested.
"It's just awfie expensive bein' ill," replied Mother Gilchrist calmly. "Ye can hae the reckonin' later on. Meanwhile, tak yer nourishment like a good lammie."
"What's ten pun' to you one way or another," continued the exemplar of youth, when Marmie, up for the first time, returned to the charge. "You've gotten a paper in yon purse that's worth a guid deal tae you, my lass, if it's written in the man's own write--an' if ye can prove----"
Marrion interrupted her in an angry flash.
"You're making a mistake. It has nothing to do wi' me. An' I wouldn't prove if I could."
She paused, feeling she was contradicting herself.
"Lord sakes," retorted Mother Gilchrist, "ye needna loup down a body's throat! An', anyhow, a lassie wi' such hair as you've gotten needna look for ten pounds."
Marrion, still weakened body and soul by her illness, thought almost regretfully of her hairdresser.
"Aye," she assented languidly, "they'd give me that for it; but I should feel bad if it were cut off, shouldn't I?"