Chapter Seven.
A Friend in Need.
Mrs Stirling’s cottage stood not far from the high-road that leads to Dunmoor, at the distance of a mile and a half from Kirklands. It was Nancy’s own, and though humble and small, it was yet a very comfortable abode; for her reputation for neatness and order was as well established as her reputation for grumbling. There were no evidences of a refined taste about the place; but perfect order prevailed. There was not a weed in the garden without, nor a speck in the house within. Every article made of wood was as white as soap and sand or as bright as turpentine and wax and much rubbing could make it; and every piece of metal was dazzling to behold.
There were some relics of former grandeur, too; for Mrs Stirling had not always lived in so humble a home. Her husband had been prosperous in a small way, but the property he left had been sadly mismanaged after his death, or there would have been a larger portion for his widow. But she had enough to supply her simple wants; and there were those among her neighbours so uncharitable as to say that she enjoyed the opportunity for murmuring which its loss afforded, more than she could have enjoyed the possession of twice her means.
“Mrs Stirling might be as happy as the day is long, with nobody to trouble her from one year’s end to the other,” was the frequent remark of many a toil-worn mother, fighting with poverty and cares, in the midst of many children. Yet none of them would have changed her life of care for Nancy’s solitary comfort. Not that Nancy did not enjoy life in her way. She enjoyed greatly putting things to rights and keeping things in order. She enjoyed her garden and her neighbours’ good-natured envy on account of its superiority to their own. And, much more than people supposed, she enjoyed doing a good turn to any one who really needed it. It is true that her favours were, as a general thing, conferred ungraciously; but even those who had the least patience with her infirmities of temper availed themselves of her good offices, acknowledging that, after all, “her bark was worse than her bite.”
During the last few months of their intercourse, Lilias had seen comparatively little of Mrs Stirling’s characteristic ungraciousness, and she felt very grateful to her for her many kindnesses during the winter. Unconsciously to herself, in seeking her advice she was making the return which her friend could best appreciate.
Mrs Stirling was standing at the door, with her water-bucket in her hand, as Lilias came in sight that Saturday afternoon.
“Eh! yon’s Lilias Elder coming up the hill. What can bring her here? I don’t know the day when I have seen her so far from home. Eh, but she’s a bonny, genteel little lassie! There’s no doubt of that.”