“It wasna easy,” she confessed afterwards to M. Tod, “an’ I doobt he jist bought it to please me; but it’s awa’ at last, an’ ye’ll never see it again—unless, maybe, at a jumble sale. He was real nice aboot it, an’ gaed awa’ smilin’.”
“I hope ye didna deceive the man,” said M. Tod, trying not to look gratified.
“I told him the solemn truth. I told him it was on ma conscience to sell the inkpot afore anither day had dawned. It’s no’ every day it pays ye to tell the truth, is it?” The last sentence was happily inaudible to the old woman.
“But, lassie, I never intended ye to feel ye had ta’en a vow to sell the inkpot. I wud be unco vexed to think——”
Christina gave her employer’s shoulder a little kindly, reassuring pat. “Na, na; ye needna fash yersel’ aboot that,” she said. Then, moving away: “As a matter o’ fac’, I had compromised myself regardin’ the inkpot in—in anither direction.”
Which was all Greek to M. Tod.
CHAPTER NINE
For a fortnight it ran smoothly enough. There were, to be sure, occasional ripples; little doubts, little fears, little jealousies; but they passed as swiftly as they appeared.