“Gi’e him five minutes, Lizzie,” said Mr. Robinson.
“I’m in nae hurry,” remarked Gran’paw Purdie, who had come up from the coast that afternoon.
“I’m awfu’ hungry, Maw,” piped a young voice.
“Whisht, Jimsie,” whispered daughter Jeannie.
Said Mrs. Robinson, a little impatiently: “Come awa’, come awa’, afore everything gets spiled. Macgreegor has nae business to be that late.” She glanced at the clock. “He’s been the same a’ week. Haste ye, John.”
John opened his mouth, but catching his wife’s eye, closed it again without speech.
Excepting Jimsie, they came to the table rather reluctantly.
“Ask a blessin’, fayther,” murmured Lizzie.
“Shut yer eyes,” muttered Jeannie to her little brother, while she restrained his eager paw from reaching a cookie.
Mr. Purdie’s white head shook slightly as he said grace; he had passed his five and seventieth birthday, albeit his spirit was cheerful as of yore; in his case old age seemed to content itself with an occasional mild reminder.