Near sunset of the day that followed the ewe-gathering, she drifted into Rebecca’s kitchen, pride and weariness waging a private feud within her.
“It is always the same tale, Rebecca,” she said. “My father is not well enough to go just yet, and we overstay our leave.”
“Who told you that?” asked the other dryly, as she gimped the edge of an apple-pasty before she set it in the oven. “Not me for one.”
“Nobody told me—in so many words.”
Rebecca glanced up. The harsh face that was worth a couple of watch-dogs to the house—as Hardcastle’s jest had it—was softened now.
“We’re a stiff folk here, the Master and me. It’s old habit to snap at foreigners—but once in a while the snap doesn’t mean so much. You’re very welcome to stay on.”
“If you’ll let us pay,” said Causleen, fire smouldering in her eyes. “We’re not beggar-folk, but pedlars—giving for what we get.”
“All in a fine tantrum, are you? As if Logie couldn’t give a lodging to a couple of far-spent wanderers.”
“We haven’t money, but I could help you—to wash up in the kitchen, and clean the upstairs rooms—”
“You could,” broke in Rebecca, “if I’d let you. You seem not to know that it’s joy and pride to me to serve the Master. He’s worth the while.”