“I want to tell ye,” moaned Isy with feeble expostulation, “’at ye dinna ken wha ye hae taen intil yer hoose! Lat me up to get my breath, or I’ll no be able to tell ye.”
“Drink your tea,” answered the other, “and then say what you like. There’s no hurry. You’ll have time enough.”
The poor girl opened her eyes wide, and gazed for a moment at Mrs. Robertson. Then she took the cup and drank the tea. Her new friend went on—
“You must just be content to bide where you are a day or two. Ye’re no to fash yersel aboot onything: I have clothes enough to give you all the change you can want. Hold your tongue, please, and finish your tea.”
“Eh, mem,” cried Isy, “fowk ’ill say ill o’ ye, gien they see the like o’ me in yer hoose!”
“Lat them say, and say ’t again! What’s fowk but muckle geese!”
“But there’s the minister and his character!” she persisted.
“Hoots! what cares the minister?” said his wife. “Speir at him there, what he thinks o’ clash.”
“’Deed,” answered her husband, “I never heedit it eneuch to tell! There’s but ae word I heed, and that’s my Maister’s!”
“Eh, but ye canna lift me oot o’ the pit!” groaned the poor girl.