“The Lord be guid tae us!” she exclaimed. “What brings yon cratur here—and on a Sabbath mornin'? Mind you, Malcolm,” she continued in a voice of sharp decision, “A'll hae nane o' his 'rights o' British citizens' clack the morn.”
“Who is it, Mother?” enquired her son, coming from his room to look out through the window. “Oh, dinna fash ye're heid ower yon windbag,” he added, dropping into his broadest Doric and patting his mother on the shoulder.
“He disna fash me,” said his mother. “Nae fears. But A'll no pairmit him to brak the Sabbath in this hoose, A can tell ye.” None the less she opened the door to Mr. Wigglesworth with dignified courtesy.
“Guid mornin', Mr. Wigglesworth,” she said cordially. “Ye're airly on yere way tae the Kirk.”
“Yes—that is—yes,” replied Mr. Wigglesworth in some confusion, “I am a bit (h)early. Fact is, I was (h)anxious to catch Malcolm before 'e went aht. I 'ave a rather (h)important business on 'and with 'im, very (h)important business, I might say.”
“'Business,' did ye say, Mr. Wigglesworth?” Mrs. McNish stood facing him at the door. “Business! On the Lord's Day?”
Mr. Wigglesworth gaped at her, hat in hand.
“Well, Mrs. McNish, not (h)exactly business. That is,” he said with an apologetic smile, “(h)it depends, you see, just w'at yeh puts (h)into a word, Mrs. McNish.”
Mr. Wigglesworth's head went over to one side as if in contemplation of a new and striking idea.
“A pit nae meaning into a word that's no in it on its ain accoont,” she replied with uncompromising grimness. “Business is just business, an' my son diz nae business on the Lord's Day.”