“He that believeth shall not make haste,” she said, “but he maunna tempt the Lord, aither. Drink that milk, Gibbie, an’ pit a bannock i’ yer pooch, an’ come awa.”
Robert rose from the edge of the bed, staff in hand, ready too. He also was in his Sunday clothes. Oscar, who could make no change of attire, but was always ready, and had been standing looking up in his face for the last ten minutes, wagged his tail when he saw him rise, and got out of his way. On the table were the remains of their breakfast of oat-cake and milk—the fire Janet had left on the hearth was a spongy mass of peat, as wet as the winter before it was dug from the bog, so they had had no porridge. The water kept coming in splashes down the lum, the hillocks of the floor were slimy, and in the hollows little lakes were gathering: the lowest film of the torrent-water ran down the rock behind, and making its way between rock and roof, threatened soon to render the place uninhabitable.
“What’s the eese o’ lo’denin’ yersel’ wi’ the umbrell?” said Robert. “Ye’ll get it a’ drookit (drenched).”
“Ow, I’ll jist tak it,” replied Janet, with a laugh in acknowledgment of her husband’s fun; “it’ll haud the rain ohn blin’t me.”
“That’s gien ye be able to haud it up. I doobt the win’ ’ll be ower sair upo’ ’t. I’m thinkin’, though, it’ll be mair to haud yer beuk dry!”
Janet smiled and made no denial.
“Noo, Gibbie,” she said, “ye gang an’ lowse Crummie. But ye’ll hae to lead her. She winna be to caw in sic a win’ ’s this, an’ no plain ro’d afore her.”
“Whaur div ye think o’ gauin’?” asked Robert, who, satisfied as usual with whatever might be in his wife’s mind, had not till this moment thought of asking her where she meant to take refuge.
“Ow, we’ll jist mak for the Mains, gien ye be agreeable, Robert,” she answered. “It’s there we belang till, an’ in wather like this naebody wad refeese bield till a beggar, no to say Mistress Jean till her ain fowk.”
With that she led the way to the door and opened it.