“Bide still, woman! Friends dinna fall out for a single ill word. And what with ae thing and anither I dinna weel ken what I’m saying or doing whiles. Sit down: it’s you that’s unreasonable now.”
This was Mistress Elspat Smith, the wife of a farmer—“no’ that ill aff,” as he cautiously expressed it—a far more important person in the parish than Janet, the minister’s maid-of-all-work. It was a condescension on her part to come into Janet’s kitchen, under any circumstances, she thought; and to be taken up sharply for a friendly word was not to be borne. But they had been friends all their lives; and Janet “kenned hersel’ as gude a woman as Elspat Smith, weel aff or no’ weel aff;” so with gentle violence she pushed her back into her chair, saying:
“Hoot, woman! What would folk say to see you and me striving at this late day? And I want to consult you.”
“But you should speak sense yourself, Janet,” said her friend.
“Folk maun speak as it’s given them to speak,” said Janet; “and we’ll say nae mair about it. No’ but that the bairns might be the better to have some one to be over them. She wouldna hae her sorrow to seek, I can tell you. No that they’re ill bairns—”
“We’ll say no more about it, since that is your will,” said Mrs Smith, with dignity; and then, relenting, she added,—
“You have a full handfu’ with the eight of them, I’m sure.”
“Seven only,” said Janet, under her breath. “She got one of them safe home with her, thank God. No’ that there’s one ower many,” added she quickly; “and they’re no’ ill bairns.”
“You have your ain troubles among them, I dare say, and are muckle to be pitied—”
“Me to be pitied!” said Janet scornfully, “there’s no fear o’ me. But what can the like o’ me do? For ye ken, woman, though the minister is a powerful preacher, and grand on points o’ doctrine, he’s a verra bairn about some things. She aye keepit the siller, and far did she make it gang—having something to lay by at the year’s end as well. Now, if we make the twa ends meet, it’s mair than I expect.”