It was a dismal little place, having a small window on the side next the street, and a still smaller one on the other. There was the inevitable box-bed on the side opposite the fireplace, and the equally inevitable big brown chest for clothing, and bedding, and all other household valuables that needed a touch of “the smith’s fingers” for safety. There was the meal-chest, and a tiny cupboard for dishes and food, and on a high dresser, suggestive of more extensive housekeeping operations than the mistress had needed for many a year and day, were piled a number of chairs and other articles not needed in the school.
A dismal place, but it was her own, till morning should bring the bairns again. So she mended the peat fire into a brighter glow, and seated herself beside it, to take the solace of her pipe, after the worries and weariness of the day.
A pleasant sound put an end to her meditations. From under the chair which stood near the little window at the head of the box-bed, came, with stately step, a big, black hen, announcing, with triumphant cackle, that her duty was done for the day also. The mistress rose and took the warm egg from the nest.
“Weel dane, Tappie! Ye’se get your supper as ye deserve, and then I maun awa’ to the manse.” So she scattered her scanty supply of crumbs about the door, and then prepared herself for her visit.
If she had been going to the manse by special invitation, she would have put on her Sabbath-day’s gown and shawl, and all the folk would have known it as she went up the street. But as she was going on business, she only changed her mutch, and her kerchief and apron, and putting her key in its accustomed hole in the thatch, she went slowly down the street, knitting, or, as she would have called it, “weaving,” as she went.
She had not very far to go, but two or three greetings she got and returned as she passed. “Mistress Jamieson,” the neighbours called her to her face, but she knew quite well that behind her back she was just called Bell Cummin, her maiden name, as was the way among the humbler class of folk in these parts. They all paid her a certain measure of respect, but she was not a favourite among them, for she was silent and sour, and sometimes over-ready to take offence, and her manner was not over-friendly at the best of times.
At the entrance of the close which led to the back door of the manse stood the weaver’s wife from next door, and with her a woman with whom the mistress was not always on speaking terms. This was the wife of tailor Coats, who spent, as the schoolmistress had once told her, more time on the causey (pavement) than was good either for herself or her bairns. She would fain have passed her now without speaking, but that was not the intention of Mistress Coats.
“The minister’s nae at hame, nor the mistress,” said she, “and since ye hae lost your journey, ye micht as weel come in and hae a crack (talk) with Mistress Sim and me, and gie’s o’ your news.”
“I dinna deal in news, and I hae nae time for cracks and clavers.”
“Dear me! and sae few bairns as ye hae noo at the schule. Gin ye could but learn them their samplers noo, or even just plain sewing, ye might keep the lassies thegither for a whilie langer. But their mithers man hae them taucht to use their needles, and it canna be wonnered at.”