"Oh! I'm sorry, sir," said Mrs. Bindle, "I thought it was Bindle."
Her whole manner underwent a change; her uncompromising attitude of disapproval giving place to one of almost servile anxiety to make a good impression. She hurriedly removed and folded her apron, slipping it into the dresser-drawer.
"Won't you come into the parlour, sir?" she said. "It's very kind of you to call."
"Na, na, Mrs. Beendle," replied Mr. MacFie. "I joost cam in to—to——" He hesitated.
"But won't you sit down, sir?" Mrs. Bindle indicated a chair by the side of the table.
Mr. MacFie drew the chair towards him, sitting bolt upright, holding his soft felt hat upon his knees.
Mrs. Bindle drew another chair from under the opposite side of the table and seated herself primly upon it. With folded hands she waited for the minister to speak.
Mr. MacFie was obviously ill at ease.
"Ye'll be comin' to the sairvice, the nicht, Mrs. Beendle?" he began.
"Oh, yes, sir," responded Mrs. Bindle, moving her head back on her shoulders, depressing her chin and drawing in her lips with a simper. "I wouldn't miss your address."