“Na, na, never a queston!” interposed Peter;—“no ane afore even the shaidow o’ deith has left the hoose!—Draw ye up to the table, my bonny bairn: this isna a time for ceremony, and there’s sma’ room for that ony day!”
Finding, however, that she sat motionless, and looked far more death-like than while in her trance, he got up, and insisted on her swallowing a little whisky; when she revived, and glad to put herself under his nearer protection, took the chair he had placed for her beside him, and made a futile attempt at eating. “It’s sma’ won’er the puir thing hasna muckle eppiteet,” remarked Mrs. Blatherwick, “considerin the w’y yon ravin laddie up the stair has been cairryin on til her!”
“What! Hoo’s that?” questioned her husband with a start.
“But ye’re no to mak onything o’ that, Isy!” added her mistress.
“Never a particle, mem!” returned Isy. “I ken weel it stan’s for naething but the heat o’ the burnin brain! I’m richt glaid though, that the sicht o’ me did seem to comfort him a wee!”
“Weel, I’m no sae sure!” answered Marion. “But we’ll say nae mair anent that the noo! The guidman says no; and his word’s law i’ this hoose.”
Isy resumed her pretence of breakfast. Presently Eppie came down, and going to her master, said—
“Here’s An’ra, sir, come to speir efter the yoong minister and Isy: am I to gar him come in?”
“Ay, and gie him his brakfast,” shouted the farmer.
The old woman set a chair for her son by the door, and proceeded to attend to him. James was left alone.