Before they reached the Widdiehill, Donal, with the open heart of the poet, was full of friendliness to her, and rejoiced in the mischance that had led him to make her acquaintance.
“Ye ken, of coorse,” he happened to say, “’at Gibbie’s wi’ Maister Sclater?”
“Weel eneuch,” she answered. “I hae seen him tee; but he’s a gran’ gentleman grown, an’ I wadna like to be affrontit layin’ claim till ’s acquaintance,—walcome as he ance was to my hoose!”
She had more reason for the doubt and hesitation she thus expressed than Donal knew. But his answer was none the less the true one as regarded his friend.
“Ye little ken Gibbie,” he said “gien ye think that gait o’ ’im! Gang ye to the minister’s door and speir for ’im! He’ll be doon the stair like a shot.—But ’deed maybe he’s come back, an’ ’s i’ my chaumer the noo! Ye’ll come up the stair an’ see?”
“Na, I wunna dee that,” said Mistress Croale, who did not wish to face Mistress Murkison, well known to her in the days of her comparative prosperity.
She pointed out the door to him, but herself stood on the other side of the way till she saw it opened by her old friend in her night-cap, and heard her make jubilee over his return.
Gibbie had come home and gone out again to look for him, she said.
“Weel,” remarked Donal, “there wad be sma’ guid in my gaein’ to luik for him. It wad be but the sheep gaein’ to luik for the shepherd.”
“Ye’re richt there,” said his landlady. “A tint bairn sud aye sit doon an’ sit still.”