Perhaps because her eyes were of a flashing black that pierced one like a steel blade, Sarah usually looked down in speaking to you, but now she gave Carmichael one swift, comprehensive look that judged him soul and body, then her eyes fell, and her face, always too hard and keen, softened.
"I will try, sir, to make you comfortable, and you will tell me anything that is wrong."
"You took us by surprise, Sarah," and Carmichael, after his hearty fashion, seized his housekeeper's hand; "let me bid you welcome to the manse. I hope you will be happy here, and not feel lonely."
But the housekeeper only bowed, and turned to his aunt.
"Dinner at six? As you were not in, and it did not seem any use consulting the woman that was here, I am preparing for that hour."
"Well, ye see, Sarah, we have just been taking tea, with something to it, but if—"
"Gentlemen prefer evening dinner, ma'am."
"Quite right, Sarah," burst in Carmichael in great glee; "tea-dinner is the most loathsome meal ever invented, and we 'll never have it in the Free Manse.
"That is an admirable woman, auntie," as Sarah disappeared, "with sound views on important subjects. I 'll never ask again where she came from; she is her own testimonial."
"You mauna be extravagant, John; Sarah hes never seen a manse before, and I must tell her not to—"