She was a very small, spare woman, in a blue print with little white spots—straight, not bowed like her husband. Otherwise she seemed at first exactly like him. But ere the evening was over, Donal saw there was no featural resemblance between the two faces, and was puzzled to understand how the two expressions came to be so like: as they sat, it seemed in the silence as if they were the same person thinking in two shapes and two places.
Following the old woman, Donal ascended a steep and narrow stair, which soon brought him to a landing where was light, coming mainly through green leaves, for the window in the little passage was filled with plants. His guide led him into what seemed to him an enchanting room—homely enough it was, but luxurious compared to what he had been accustomed to. He saw white walls and a brown-hued but clean-swept wooden floor, on which shone a keen-eyed little fire from a low grate. Two easy chairs, covered with some party-coloured striped stuff, stood one on each side of the fire. A kettle was singing on the hob. The white deal-table was set for tea—with a fat brown teapot, and cups of a gorgeous pattern in bronze, that shone in the firelight like red gold. In one of the walls was a box-bed.
“I’ll lat ye see what accommodation we hae at yer service, sir,” said Doory, “an’ gien that’ll shuit ye, ye s’ be welcome.”
So saying, she opened what looked like the door of a cupboard at the side of the fireplace. It disclosed a neat little parlour, with a sweet air in it. The floor was sanded, and so much the cleaner than if it had been carpeted. A small mahogany table, black with age, stood in the middle. On a side-table covered with a cloth of faded green, lay a large family Bible; behind it were a few books and a tea-caddy. In the side of the wall opposite the window, was again a box-bed. To the eyes of the shepherd-born lad, it looked the most desirable shelter he had ever seen. He turned to his hostess and said,
“I’m feart it’s ower guid for me. What could ye lat me hae ’t for by the week? I wad fain bide wi’ ye, but whaur an’ whan I may get wark I canna tell; sae I maunna tak it ony gait for mair nor a week.”
“Mak yersel’ at ease till the morn be by,” said the old woman. “Ye canna du naething till that be ower. Upo’ the Mononday mornin’ we s’ haud a cooncil thegither—you an’ me an’ my man: I can du naething wantin’ my man; we aye pu’ thegither or no at a’.”
Well content, and with hearty thanks, Donal committed his present fate into the hands of the humble pair, his heaven-sent helpers; and after much washing and brushing, all that was possible to him in the way of dressing, reappeared in the kitchen. Their tea was ready, and the cobbler seated in the window with a book in his hand, leaving for Donal his easy chair.
“I canna tak yer ain cheir frae ye,” said Donal.
“Hoots!” returned the cobbler, “what’s onything oors for but to gie the neeper ’at stan’s i’ need o’ ’t.”
“But ye hae had a sair day’s wark!”