"Oh!" said Elizabeth. "Is she a nice lodger?"
"Verra quiet; gives no trouble," said Mrs. Veitch.
"And you'll make her so comfortable. Do you bake treacle scones for her? If you do, she'll never leave you."
"I was bakin' this verra day. Could ye—wud it bother ye to carry a scone hame? Mr. Seton's terrible fond o' treacle scone. I made him a cup o' tea wan day he cam' in and he ett yin tae't, he said he hedna tastit onything as guid sin' he was a callant."
"I know," said Elizabeth. "He told me. Of course I can carry the scones, if you can spare them."
In a moment Mrs. Veitch had got several scones pushed into a baker's bag and was thrusting it into Elizabeth's hands.
"I'll keep it dry under my waterproof," Elizabeth promised her. "My umbrella? Did I leave it at the door?"
"It's drippin' in the sink. Here it's. Good-bye, then."
"Good-bye, and very many thanks for everything—the subscription and the scones—and letting me see your room."
At the next house she made no long visitation. It was washing-day, and the mistress of the house was struggling with piles of wet clothes, sorting them out with red, soda-wrinkled hands, and hanging them on pulleys round the kitchen. Having got the subscription, Elizabeth tarried not an unnecessary moment.