Mrs. Tuppeny looked in again.
'Mister Brown! yer room's ready up the stair. Come awa, sir, an' tak aff yer claes, an' I'se dry them for ye. Ye'll get yer death, sir, an' ye bena quick! Juist see til the dub ye're stan'in' in! A' dreepit frae yersel! An' the reek frae yer fore pairts as ye staund fornent the lowe--ne'er mind the drap toddy-come awa! I'se brew ye a soup better an' stronger whan ye're in ower amang the blankets.'
So Roderick, half pushed and half exhorted, found himself forthwith upstairs and in bed, while Mrs. Tuppeny stood beside him with a noggin of her hottest and strongest toddy.
'Drink it down, sir! It wadna harm a sookin' bairn. An' ye're needn't. Noo see gin ye canna sleep a wee. It wad do ye gude. Gin ye dinna tak tent, ye'se no wag yer pow in a poopit this mony a day.'
CHAPTER XIV.
[SCANDAL].
When Mrs. Sangster found herself safe in a human habitation, she relaxed the tense control in which she had held her faculties, and let nature have its way.
She sank into a chair beside the fire, and trembled and shivered and wept profusely for some time. Mrs. Boague heaped fuel on the fire, removed her shoes, chafed her feet, disencumbered her by degrees of her outer and wetter garments, which she hung up to dry, and wrapped her in warm plaids and blankets. The warm cup of tea which she then offered was fortified with a dash from her husband's private bottle, very privately added and not mentioned. It acted like a charm in restoring vigour and composure to the way-worn lady.
'Your tea is most refreshing, Mrs. Boague. I feel greatly better, and very thankful to you for your kind attention.'
'An' kindly welcome ye are, mem, an' mair I wad like to do gin I juist kenned what ye wad like. It's no often a kenned face, or ony face ava for that matter, comes by here-awa, forbye a wheen gillies, raxin' their breekless shanks alang the braes ahint the gentles. I'm a laich country woman mysel', an' I hae sma' brew o' the hieland folk, wi' their kilts an' their pipes, the daft antics. An' forbye that, we're no e'y Hielands here! Ye'll gang twenty mile afore ye'll come on the Gaelic. It's juist a maggit the General's gotten intil's heid, to pet his folk in kilts like a curran playactors, an' please my leddy wha cam frae the North. An' are ye comin' round, mem? Ye were sair forfuchan whan ye gat down first.'