When business or pleasure brought any of the cottage wives to the manse kitchen, as happened frequently, their “gude-day t’ye” was always promptly and quietly answered, but it never got much beyond that with any of them. Allison went about her work in the house or out of it, and “heeded them as little as the stools they sat on,” some of them said, and their husbands and brothers could say no more.
When she was discussed, as of course she was at all suitable times and occasions, the reports which were given of her were curiously alike. Friendliness, curiosity, condescension—the one had sped no better than the other. The next-door neighbours to the manse had no more to tell than the rest. There was no lingering at the kitchen-door, or at the mouth of the close in the long gloaming, as there used to be in Kirstin’s time.
“Ceevil! ay, if ye can ca’ it civeelity. She maistly just says naething and gaes by as gin she didna see ye,” said the weaver’s wife.
“For my pairt, I hae nae feast o’ sic civeelity,” said Mrs Coats from the other side of the street. “I should like to ken mair aboot her ere I hae muckle to say to her.”
“It winna trouble her though you sae naething,” said the weaver. “She’s valued in the manse, that’s weel seen.”
“Ay, she is that,” said his wife. “I never thought they would soon get one to step so readily into auld Kirstin’s shoon. She gets through far mair than ever Kirstin did in the course of the day, and the hoose is like a new preen (pin).”
“I daursay. New besoms sweep clean,” said Mrs Coats with a sniff.
“There’s a differ in besoms, however, be they auld or new,” said the weaver.
“She’s the kin’ o’ lass to please the men it seems. We’ll need to keep a calm sough the lave o’ us,” said Mrs Coats.
“It’s ay safe to keep a calm sough,” said the weaver. “Gin she suits the minister’s wife that’s the chief thing. The warst we ken o’ her yet is that she’s no’ heedin’ ony o’ us, and she micht hae waur fauts.”