“It a’n’t to be lent nor to be borrowed,” said the peddler; “leastways, it a’n’t for me to lend. The owner may do as she likes.”
“How much would it cost?” asked Shenac with a vague, wild idea that possibly at some future time she might get one.
“I can tell you that exactly,” said the peddler. “I’ve got the invoice here all right, and another document with it;” and he handed Shenac a letter, directed, as she knew at a glance, in the handwriting of her cousin, Mrs More.
“It’s from Christie,” said Shenac Dhu, looking over her shoulder. “Open it, Shenac; what ails you?”
Shenac opened the letter, and the other Shenac read it with her. It need not be given here. It told how Mrs More had taken Shenac’s hair to a hair-dresser in the city, and how the money she had received for it had been given into the hands of Mr Rugg, who was to buy a wheel with it, as something Shenac would be sure to value.
“And here it is,” said Mr Rugg; “as good a wheel as need be.—It will put yours quite out of fashion, Mrs Macivor.”
It was with some difficulty that the mother could be made to understand that the wheel was Shenac’s—bought and paid for. As for Shenac, she could only stand and look at it, saying not a word. Shenac Dhu shook her heartily.
“Here I have come all the way in the rain to hear what you would say, and you stand and glower and say nothing at all.”
“Try it, Shenac,” said Hamish, bringing a handful of rolls of wool from his mother’s wheel.
“She’ll need to learn first,” said Shenac Dhu.