“But Anne wants a great big woman, like me, Jacky,” said Marjory Falconer, laughing, “an old woman perhaps.”
“But if ye please, Miss Falconer,” said Jacky, seriously, “an old woman wouldna do—an old woman wouldna be so faithful and—and—” Jacky paused, her conscience smiting her: was not the Squire of the redoubtable Britomart an old woman? Whereupon there ensued in Jacky’s mind a metaphysical discussion as to whether Glauce or Mrs. Elspat Henderson was the best type of the class of ancient serving-women—remaining undecided upon which point, she had nothing for it but to repeat the prayer of her petition: “Oh, Miss Anne, will you let me go?”
“Do you intend to take a maid with you, Anne?” asked Marjory.
“Yes.”
“Then you should take Jacky by all means.”
Anne hesitated.
“You forget, Jacky, that it is not I, but Mrs. Catherine, who must decide this.”
“Oh, if ye please, Mrs. Catherine will let me go, Miss Anne, if you’re wanting me.”
“And your mother, Jacky?”
“My mother’s no needing me, Miss Anne.”