There was a pause of a minute or two, and then the door opened, and John Beaton appeared, carrying a light.
“I was wishing to say a word to Mrs Beaton, if she will let me,” said Allison, making a great effort to speak as usual.
“Surely,” said John. “Come in.”
“Come away in, Allison,” said Mrs Beaton’s kind voice out of the darkness.
When John had shut the door and come into the parlour with the light, he was surprised to see that the two women had clasped hands, and that on his mother’s face was the look which he had hitherto believed it had worn for him alone. He moved a chair forward from the wall.
“Sit down, Allison,” said he.
“No,” said she; “I will say first what I came to say.”
John set down the candle and turned to go. But Allison put out her hand to detain him.
“’Bide still,” said she. “I have to ask your mother to ask her son to do something for me—something which I cannot do for myself, but which must be done, or I think my heart will break.”
“’Bide still, John,” said his mother.