Tears of gratitude stood in Jeannie's eyes as she crossed the threshold. She extended her hand to Wullie, and endeavored to express her thanks; but sobs choked her utterance, and she burst into tears.
"Ye maunna greet, woman; ye are mair than welcome. Sit doun by the fire, and warm yoursel' and the bairns," said Wullie in the kindest tones.
Jeannie sat down and soon regained her composure. Then she arose, and began to place and put in order the few things she had brought with her. This done, she returned to the fire where Wullie was preparing the evening meal. She assisted in arranging the table, and soon they sat down to a frugal but substantial supper.
After the repast was finished, Robert went to pay his rent. Jeannie busied herself about the house for a while; then she put the children to bed, and sat down to her usual evening occupation, knitting.
Wullie did not as usual get his Bible; he sat on the opposite side of the room and watched Jeannie's nimble fingers and listened to the clicking of her needles.
"Jeannie, ye are o'er pale and thin; are ye no weel?" he asked.
"I maistly think I am weel; but whiles I misdoot it. I think laneliness has had muckle to do wi' my ill looks. I was reared in a large family, and I canna but feel the change. Then Rab has a way o' gaen oot in the evening, and I am all alane, savin' my sleepin' bairns; and it is weary waitin', for he is lang a-comin'. I doot if he would like me to tell you, but lately I hae suffered bath laneliness and fear."
"O Jeannie, ye s'ould hae tauld me before. I didna ken he was gaen that gate."
"Weel, I hae tauld ye noo, and I hae a purpose in tellin' ye. I want ye to look after him. He willna heed me, but perhaps he will heed you."
Wullie was about to reply when they heard a footstep, and Robert entered.