“I’ve been reading no poetry,” cried Kirsteen, with the most poignant sense of injury. “Let me pass, Mary, I’m going up the stair.”
But it was Marg’ret now who interposed, coming out at the sound of the altercation. She said, “Miss Kirsteen, I’m making some beef-tea for the mistress. Come in like a dear and warm your hands, and ye can carry it up. It will save me another trail up and down these stairs.”
Kirsteen stood for a moment obstructed on both sides with a sense of contrariety which was almost intolerable. Tears of vexation rose to her eyes. “Can I not have a moment to myself?” she cried.
“To read your poetry!” Mary called after her in her mild little exasperating voice.
“Whist, whist, my lamb, say nothing,” said Marg’ret. “Your mother canna bide to have a talking. Never you mind what she says, think upon the mistress that’s lying up there, wanting to hear everything and canna—wanting to be in the middle of everything and no equal to it. It was no that I grudge going up the stairs, but just to keep a’ things quiet. And what’s that you’ve gotten in your hand?”
“It’s just a small parcel,” said Kirsteen, covering it with her fingers. “It’s just a—something I was buying—”
“Not sweeties,” said Marg’ret solemnly; “the bairns had more than plenty last night—”
“Never you mind what it is,” said Kirsteen with a burst of impatience, thrusting it into her pocket. “Give me the beef-tea and I’ll take it up stairs.”
Mrs. Douglas lay concealed behind her curtains, her face almost in a fluid state with constant weeping. “Oh, set it down upon the table,” she said. “Do they think there’s comfort in tea when a woman has parted with her bairn? And where have ye been, Kirsteen? just when I was in want of ye most; just when my head was sorest, and my heart like to break—Robbie gone, and Mary so taken up with herself, and you—out of the way—”
“I’m very sorry, mother,” said poor Kirsteen. “I ran down to the merchant’s to get you your yarn for your knitting. I thought you would like to have it ready.”