Having thus delivered her soul, Auntie Bell set her basket on a low stone dyke; wiped, first her face, and then her spectacles, with a large and spotless handkerchief, and proceeded on her way to the station with an easy mind.
Rachel was out paying calls when she arrived. But Mona received her friend with an enthusiastic welcome that amply repaid the old woman for her trouble. Half of the eccentricity for which Auntie Bell had so wide a reputation was enthusiasm blighted in the bud; and she keenly appreciated the quality in another,—when it was accompanied by a sufficiency of ballast.
"You look tired," Mona said, as she poured out the tea she had prepared herself.
"Ay, I'm sair owerwraucht. Ane o' the lassies is ill—that's the first guid cup o' tea I hae tasted i' this hoose! Ane o' the lassies is ill—she's no' a lassie aither, she'll be forty come Martinmas; but she's been wi' me sin' she was saxteen, an' the silly thing'll no' see a doctor, an' I nae ken what's tae be dune."
"What's the matter with her?" asked Mona.
"Hoot, lassie! it's nae hearin' for the like o' you."
"It is just the hearing that is for me. I am not a child, and, now that I am going away, Rachel has no objection to my telling you in confidence that I am studying to be a doctor."
Amusement—incredulity—dismay—appeared, one after the other, on the weather-beaten, expressive old face, and then it grew very grave.
"Na, na, lassie," said the old woman severely. "Ye dinna mean that. A canny, wiselike thing like you wad niver pit hersel' forrit like some o' thae hussies we hear aboot in Ameriky. Think o' yer faither! Ye'll no' dae onything that wad bring discredit on him?"
"Tell me about your servant," Mona said, waiving the question with a gentleness that was more convincing than any protestations. "What does she complain of?"