Marjory smiled, for she well knew that Peter had had his own way at Hunters' Brae for many a long year, and the doctor had very little to do with the disposal of his time; but Peter was faithful to the smallest detail, his duty was his life, and the doctor could trust him.
Marjory then betook herself to the kitchen to try her powers of persuasion upon Lisbeth.
The kitchen at Hunters' Brae was a picture to see. A large room, bright and airy, plates in orderly rows upon the dresser, copper pans that shone like mirrors, spotless table and spotless floor, a big open fire throwing out a cheerful glow—such was Lisbeth's domain. To complete the picture, there was Lisbeth herself, a most wholesome hearty-looking old lady, with rosy cheeks and kindly eyes. Her dress was made of lilac-coloured print, and her apron was an immense size. She wore a round cap with a goffered frill and strings which tied under her chin. She was firmly convinced that no finer family than the Hunters of Hunters' Brae ever existed, and that the world did not contain such another man as her Peter—two beliefs which went a long way towards maintaining that domestic peace which was the rule at Hunters' Brae.
"Weel, Marjory, what is't?" she asked, as Marjory entered the kitchen. Lisbeth had never adopted the formal "Miss" in her mode of addressing Marjory, the baby she had seen grow up. She had determined that when the "bairn" should reach the age of fifteen, then would be time enough to begin it.
"I want to ask you a favour," said Marjory.
"Ask awa," replied Lisbeth, her arms akimbo.
"Will you do it?"
"No till I hear what it is."
"Well, I want you to make some shortbread for tea."
"Shortbread the day?" asked the old woman in surprise; "the morn's no the Sawbath."