“Bide a wee, Cosmo,” cried Agnes, and leaving him in the middle of the street where they were walking, she ran across to one of the houses, and entered—lifting the latch without ceremony. No neighbour troubled another to come and open the door; if there was no one at home, the key in the lock outside showed it.
Cosmo turned his back to the wind, and stood waiting. From the door which Aggie opened, came through the wind and snow the sound of the shoemaker’s hammer on his lapstone.
“Cud ye spare the mistress for an hoor, or maybe twa an’ a half, to haud Grannie company, John Nauchty?” said Agnes.
“Weel that,” answered the sutor , hammering away. He intended no reflection on the bond that bound the mistress and himself.
“I dinna see her,” said Aggie.
“She’ll be in in a minute. She’s run ower the ro’d to get a doup o’ a can’le,” returned the man.
“Gien she dinna gae speedier, she’ll hae to licht it to fin’ her ain door,” said Agnes merrily, to whom the approaching fight with the elements was as welcome as to Cosmo. She had made up her mind to go with him all the way, let him protest as he might.
“Ow na! she’ll hearken, an’ hear the hemmer,” replied the shoemaker.
“Weel, tak the key, an’ ye winna forget, John?” said Aggie, laying the key amongst his tools. “Grannie’s lyin’ there her lee-lane, an’ gien the hoose was to tak fire, what wad come o’ her?”
“Guid forbid onybody sud forget Grannie!” rejoined the man heartily; “but fire wad hae a sma’ chance the nicht.”