“And they'll maybe let her sit up to all hours,” Bell proceeded. “You know the way she fastens on a book at bedtime!”
“Well, well!” said he, emphatically. “If you're sure that things are to be so bad as that, we'll not let her go at all,” and he slyly scanned her countenance, to see, as he expected, that she was indignant at the very thought of backing out, now that they had gone so far.
“You needn't start to talk nonsense,” said she; “of course she's going; but oh, Dan! it's not the sheets, nor food, nor anything like that that troubles me; it's the knowledge that she'll never be the same wee lass again.”
“Tuts!” said Daniel Dyce, and cleaned some moisture from his spectacles. “You're putting all the cheerful things I was going to say to you out of my head. I'm off to business. Is there anything I can do for you? No? Then remember, you're not to stir this week outside the blankets; these are the orders of Dr. Brash. I have no doubt Ailie will do very well at the housekeeping,” and he left her with a gleam of mischief in his eye.
The window of the bedroom was a little open; on one of the trees a blackbird sang, and there came in the scent of apple-ringie and a tempting splendor of sun. For twenty minutes the ailing body tried to content herself with the thought of a household managed by Alison Dyce, and then arose to see if Wully Oliver was not idling in the garden. She saw him sitting on his barrow-trams, while Ailie walked among the dahlias and chucked her favorites of them under their chins.
“William Oliver!” cried Miss Bell, indignantly, having thrown a Shetland shawl about her; “is that all the work you can do in a day?”
He looked up at the window, and slowly put his pipe in his pocket.
“Well, m'em,” said he. “I dare say I could do more, but I never was much of a hand for showing off.”