All the men started off for water at once, much to Mona's relief. She loosened the girl's dress, while the matron produced smelling-salts, and in a few minutes the patient opened her eyes, with a deep sigh.
"Surely Kirkstoun is not her home," said Mona, looking at the girl's face. "Sea-breezes have not had much to do with the making of her."
"Na," said the matron. "She's a puir weed. She's visiting her gran'faither across the street. I'll tak' her hame."
"No, no," said Mona. "Go back to the soirée, I'll look after her."
"Ye'll miss your tea! They're takin' roun' the teapits the noo."
"I have had tea, thank you," and, putting a strong arm round the girl's waist, Mona walked home with her, and saw her safely into bed.
She hurried back to the chapel, for she knew Rachel would be fretting about her; but the night breeze was cold and fresh, and she dreaded returning to that heated, impure air. When she entered the door, however, she scarcely noticed the atmosphere, for the laughing and fidgeting had given place to an intense stillness, broken only by one rich musical voice.
"So my eye and hand,
And inward sense that works along with both,
Have hunger that can never feed on coin."
Mr Stuart's stopgap was filling his part of the programme.
Mona hesitated at the door, and then quietly resumed her place at the end of the pew beside Rachel. The reader paused for a moment till she was seated, a scarcely perceptible shade of expression passed over his face, as her silk gown rustled softly up the aisle, and then he went on.