Donal took the bowl from her hand, and drank till all was gone.
“Wull ye hae a drap mair?” she asked.
“Na, no a drap,” answered Donal. “I’ll gang i’ the stren’th o’ that ye hae gi’en me—maybe no jist forty days, guidwife, but mair nor forty minutes, an’ that’s a guid pairt o’ a day. I thank ye hertily. Yon was the milk o’ human kin’ness, gien ever was ony.”
As he spoke he rose, and stood up refreshed for his journey.
“I hae a sodger laddie awa’ i’ the het pairts ye spak o’,” said the woman: “gien ye hadna ta’en the milk, ye wad hae gi’en me a sair hert.”
“Eh, guidwife, it wad hae gi’en me ane to think I had!” returned Donal. “The Lord gie ye back yer sodger laddie safe an’ soon’! Maybe I’ll hae to gang efter ’im, sodger mysel’.”
“Na, na, that wadna do. Ye’re a scholar—that’s easy to see, for a’ ye’re sae plain spoken. It dis a body’s hert guid to hear a man ’at un’erstan’s things say them plain oot i’ the tongue his mither taucht him. Sic a ane ’ill gang straucht till ’s makker, an’ fin’ a’thing there hame-like. Lord, I wuss minnisters wad speyk like ither fowk!”
“Ye wad sair please my mither sayin’ that,” remarked Donal. “Ye maun be jist sic anither as her!”
“Weel, come in, an’ sit ye doon oot o’ the sin, an’ hae something to ait.”
“Na, I’ll tak nae mair frae ye the day, an’ I thank ye,” replied Donal; “I canna weel bide.”