“Aye, all but the Master. You’ll never fool him twice.”
“The pedlar’s brat is doing that for me. Have they come home, the pair of them?”
“They have, thanks be.”
“Thanks be?”
Rebecca answered the girl’s scorn with tart assurance. “Why, yes. I sent that bairn of the pedlar’s out to get a breath o’ fresh air—the dear knows she needed it—and it would have lain on my conscience if she’d foundered in the snow. The Master happened on her, luckily.”
“Garsykes has learned as much. From all we hear, they made themselves snug enough for the night—blessed the snow for coming, I fancy.”
“The devil knotted thy whipcord of a tongue, Nita, but its lash doesn’t hurt us Logie Folk. We keep clean houses hereabout—and cleanish minds. What else was to be done, save shelter from such an audacious storm?”
“Well, they sheltered to some purpose. Murgatroyd saw them sitting by the hearth—she on his knee.”
“I’ve known Murgatroyd all his life,” broke in Rebecca, “and all his life he never spoke a true word unless he fell into it by accident. Get ye back to Garsykes, and feed your pigs on such-like trash.”
Shepherd Brant had been tugging at his beard, wroth kindling slowly till its fire was bright and steady.