Mrs More laughed.
“That is but a small favour, Shenac. Of course my father will take it, and he’ll bring it back too; for, though it is not his usual plan at this time of the year, he’s going on all the way to M— with butter. There came word yesterday that there was great demand for it. The wool will be done by the time he comes back; and he is to take his own too, I believe.”
Shenac gave a sigh of relief.
“Well, that’s settled.”
“Why did you not ask my father himself?” said Mrs More. “Are not you and he good friends, Shenac?” Shenac muttered something about not liking to give trouble and not liking to ask Angus Dhu. Mrs More laughed again.
“I think you are hard on my father, Shenac. I think he would be a good friend to you if you would let him. You must not mind a sharp word from the like of him. His bark is worse than his bite.”
Shenac was inexpressibly uncomfortable, remembering that all the hard words had come from her and not from Angus Dhu.
“Well, never mind,” said Mrs More; “the carrying of the wool is my father’s favour. What can I do for you, Shenac?”
“You can do one thing for me,” said Shenac briskly, glad to escape from a painful subject, and laying her hand on a shining instrument of steel that peeped from beneath the wool on which she was sitting. “You can cut my hair off. My mother does not like to do it, and Hamish won’t. I was going to ask Shenac yonder; but you will do it better.” And she began to loosen the heavy braids.
“What’s that about Shenac yonder?” said that young person, coming in upon them. “I should like to know what you are plotting, you two, together—and bringing in my innocent name too!”