She showed so much animation that her opponent retired from the contest discreetly by turning to the laird and beginning on a stock subject.
"I am sorry to say, Gleneira, that despite my own efforts, and the Bishop's earnest desire for the erection of a church, matters remain much as they were, when you were here last. That is to say, service has still to be conducted in the school-house, which, er--in addition to other illegitimate uses"--he glanced casually at his old enemy at this point--"also serves as a post-office; a plan which has great and undeniable inconvenience."
"And convenience, too," put in Mrs. Cameron, remorselessly. "You see, laird, the post is no delivered on the Sabbath-day, this bein' a Christian land, and so when folk go to kirk they can kill twa birds wi' one stane."
This was too much. "In my opinion," retorted the Reverend James, pompously, "it would be far less objectionable if Donald did deliver the letters than that the last words of the blessing should be the signal for handing them round the congregation. But as is so often the case in Scotland, the veneration for the day--which, by the way, is not the Sabbath----"
"No, no!" interrupted the old lady, "I'm no going that gate. I've told ye oft, Mr. Gillespie, it is naught to me if it's the Sabbath or Sunday, or Lord's-day or the first day o' the week we are keeping. But I ken fine that in my learnin' days I was taught to keep it holy, so if there is ony mistake it was none o' my makin'. It's the fault of the minister."
Mr. Gillespie coughed. "The hours of service are eleven o'clock for matins, and four o'clock for evensong. Miss Marjory kindly helps us with the harmonium. Indeed, one of my reasons for coming on here was to ask her to settle the hymns for Sunday first, unless, indeed, you yourself would select one suitable--er--to the occasion."
Paul took the proffered hymn-book with visible embarrassment, and looked appealingly towards Marjory, but it was impossible to laugh, for the Reverend James's proposition was saved from absurdity by its absolute simplicity.
"Really! my dear sir," he began, when Mrs. Cameron came to his rescue.
"Gie the laird a harvest hymn, Mr. Gillespie. I'll warrant he has sown his wild oats, though maybe after all, you would no care to be reapin' them, Gleneira."
He laughed very boyishly. "My dear old friend, if they were fifty shillings a quarter, I should be the richest man in Lorneshire, instead of the poorest."