“Forgive me, Nanny,” Babbie replied, so meekly that the old woman looked at her curiously.
“IT’S A GUID MERINO YET.”
“I dinna understand what has come ower you,” she said. “There’s an unca difference in you since last nicht. I used to think you were mair like a bird than a lassie, but you’ve lost a’ your daft capers o’ singing and lauching, and I take ill wi’t. Twa or three times I’ve catched you greeting. Babbie, what has come ower you?”
“Nothing, Nanny. I think I hear the bell.”
Down in Thrums two kirk-officers had let their bells loose, waking echoes in Windyghoul as one dog in country parts sets all the others barking, but Nanny did not hurry off to church. Such a surprising notion had filled her head suddenly that she even forgot to hold her dress off the floor.
“Babbie,” she cried, in consternation, “dinna tell me you’ve gotten ower fond o’ Mr. Dishart.”
“The like of me, Nanny!” the gypsy answered, with affected raillery, but there was a tear in her eye.