"It is well," he said; "I shall offer no objection to the congregation calling Mr. Denholm, and I can only hope that he will serve you as faithfully as I have done! I wish you a very good day, gentlemen!"
And with these words the old minister went out, leaving the Session to find their way into the cold air as best they might.
The day after the interview between the Session and the Doctor, Gilbert Denholm called at the manse. He came bounding up the little avenue between the lilac and rhododendron bushes. Jemima Girnigo heard his foot long ere he had reached the porch. Nay, before he had set foot on the gravel she caught the click of the gate latch, which was loose and would only open one way. This Gibby always forgot and rattled it fiercely till he remembered the trick of it.
Then when she heard the rat-tat-tat of Gibby's ash-plant on the panels of the door, she caught her hand to her heart and stood still among her plants.
There was a bell, but Gibby was always in too great a hurry to ring it.
"Perhaps he has come to——" She did not finish the sentence, but the blood, rising hotly to her poor withered cheeks, finished it for her.
"Oh, Miss Jemima!" cried Gibby, bursting in; "I came up to tell you first. I owe it all to you—every bit of it. They are going to call me to be colleague—and—and—we can botanise any amount. Isn't it glorious?"
He held her hand while he was speaking; and Jemima had been looking with hope into his frank, enkindled, boyish eyes. Her eyelids fell at his announcement.
"Yes," she faltered after a pause, "we can botanise!"
"And they wanted to know if I would like to have the manse—as if I would turn you out, who have been my best friend here ever since I came to Rescobie! Not very likely!"