“Wherefore have ye not set the table for the meal of meat?” he asked, frowning upon the maiden whom I had first seen. She stood with meek and smiling face looking at us from the lintel. Her face was shining and her hair very becomingly attired, though (as I observed) in a different fashion from what it had been in the morning by the kirk-gate when she gave me her piece to stay my hunger.
“I have been praying upon my knees for a blessing upon the work of this day in the kirk,” said Jean Gemmell, looking modestly down, “and I waited for Alexander-Jonita to help me to lay the table.”
“Were ye not vainly adoring your frail tabernacle? It seems more likely!” said her father, somewhat cruelly as I thought.
Then she looked once across at me, and her eyes filled with tears, so that I was vividly sorry for the maid. But she turned away from her father’s reproof without a word.
“We can well afford to wait. There is no haste,” I said, to ease her hurt if so I could; “this good kind maiden gave me all she had this morning in the kirk-yard, or I know not how I should have sped at the preaching work this day!”
Jean Gemmell paused half-way across the floor, as her father was employed looking out of the little window to catch a glimpse of Alexander-Jonita. She lifted her eyes again to mine with a look of sweet and tender gratitude and understanding which more than thanked me for the words I had spoken.
At that moment in came Alexander-Jonita with a free swing like some stripling gallant of high degree. I own that even at that time I liked to see her walk. She, at least, was no proud dame like—well, like one whose eyes abode with me, and the thought of whose averted gaze (God pardon me!) lay heavy about my heart when I ought to have been thinking of other and higher things.
Alexander-Jonita waited for no bidding, but after a glance which took in at once the empty board and Jean’s smooth dress and well-ordered hair, she hasted to spread a white cloth on the table, a coverture bleached and fine as it had been laundered for a prince’s repast. Then to cupboard and aumrie she went, bringing down and setting in order oaten bread, sour-milk scones of honest crispness, dried ham-of-mutton which she sliced very thin before serving—the rarest dainty of Galloway, and enough to make a hungry man’s mouth water only to think upon.
Then came in Jean Gemmell, who made shift to help daintily as she found occasion. But, listening over-closely to the converse of her father and myself, it chanced that she let fall a platter, which breaking, set her sister in a quick high mood. So that she ordered the lass to go and sit down while folk with hands did the work.
Now this somewhat vexed me, for I could see by the modest, covert way the girl glanced up at me as she set herself obediently down in the low window seat that her heart was full to the overflowing. Also something in the wild girl’s tone mettled me.