So, Allison went down the dark street, thinking a little about the sick woman, but quite indifferent as to the welcome she might receive. The house stood by itself, a little back from the road, and a wooden paling enclosed a piece of garden ground before it. The gate yielded to her hand, and so did the door. Allison felt her way to the inner door in the dim light, and then she spoke:
“I’m the minister’s lass. Mistress Hume is no’ weel, or she would have come herself. Will I licht your lamp?”
“Ay, might ye, if there is fire enough left,” said a voice from the darkness.
The lamp was lighted, and holding it high above her head, Allison turned toward the bed. Mrs Beaton raised herself up, and regarded her for a moment.
“And so you are wee Marjorie’s bonny Allie! I am glad to see you.”
“You’re not weel. The minister said I was to do what ye needed done.”
“It was kind of him to send you, and it is kind in you to come. I’m not just very well. I was trying to settle myself for the night, since there seemed nothing better to be done. Maybe ye might make my bed a wee bit easier for me, if ye were to try.”
“I’ll do that,” said Allison.
“Mrs Coats would have come in, I suppose; but her bairns are not well, and she has enough to do. And Annie, the lassie that comes in to make my fire and do other things, has gone to see her brother, who has just come home from a long voyage. I’m more than glad to see you. It’s eerie being quite alone.”
“I’m glad I came. Will I make you some gruel or a cup of tea? When had you your dinner?”