"What a nuisance I am!" she said to herself as the door closed behind her. "Me and my old Zenana Mission. It's a wonder she didn't give me a push downstairs, poor worried body!"
The next contributor had evidently gone out for the afternoon, and Elizabeth reflected ruefully that it meant another pilgrimage another day. The number of the next was given in the book as 171, but she paused uncertainly, remembering that there had been some mistake last year, and doubting if she had put it right. At 171 a boy was lounging, whittling a stick.
"Is there anyone called Campbell in this close?" she asked him.
"Wait yo here," said the boy, "an' I'll rin up and see." He returned in a minute.
"Naw—nae Cam'l. There's a Robison an' a M'Intosh an' twa Irish-lukin' names. That's a'. Twa hooses emp'y."
"Thank you very much. It was kind of you to go and look. D'you live near here?"
"Ay." The boy jerked his head backwards to indicate the direction. "Thistle Street."
"I see." Elizabeth was going to move on when a thought came to her. "D'you go to any Sunday school?"
"Me? Naw!" He looked up with an impudent grin. "A'm what ye ca' a Jew."
Elizabeth smiled down at the little snub-nosed face. "No, my son. Whatever you are, you're not that. Listen—d'you know the church just round the corner?"