“I doobt Jean has her full share o’ a’ feelin’s belangin’ to fallen human natur’,” said Mrs Mellis, with a slow horizontal oscillation of the head. “But ye jist come an’ see wi’ yer ain een, an’ syne jeedge for yersel’: it’s nae business o’ mine.”
“I’ll come the nicht, Mrs Mellis. Only lat it be atween ’s twa.”
“I can haud my tongue, mem,—that is, frae a’ but ane. Sae lang ’s merried fowk sleeps in ae bed, it’s ill to haud onything till a body’s sel’.”
“Mr Mellis is a douce man, an’ I carena what he kens,” answered Miss Horn.
She descended to the shop, and having bought bulk enough to account to Jean for her lengthened stay, for she had beyond a doubt been watching the door of the shop, she crossed the street, went up to her parlour, and rang the bell. The same moment Jean’s head was popped in at the door: she had her reasons for always answering the bell like a bullet.
“Mem?” said Jean.
“Jean, I’m gaein’ oot the nicht. The minister oucht to be spoken till aboot the schuilmaister, honest man. Tak the lantren wi’ ye to the manse aboot ten o’clock. That’ll be time eneuch.”
“Verra weel, mem. But I’m thinkin’ there’s a mune the nicht.”
“Naething but the doup o’ ane, Jean. It’s no to ca’ a mune. It’s a mercy we hae lantrens, an’ sic a sicht o’ cairds (gipsies) aboot.”
“Ay, lantren lats them see whaur ye are, an’ haud oot o’ yer gait,” said Jean, who happened not to relish going out that night.