For a long time Mrs. Macfarlane did not speak.
“I could forgive that easier than your rootin’ up my lilies,” she said, in a strained voice.
“But that I never did. God knows an’ sees me this night, an’ He knows that I never laid a finger on thim. I kem out, an’ foun’ the dog there scrattin’ at thim, an’ if this was me last dyin’ worrd, ’tis thrue.”
“An’ ’twas really the wee dog?”
“It was, though I done wrong in laughin’ at him, an’ cheerin’ him on; but, sure, ye wouldn’t mind me whin I told ye he was at me roses, an’ I thought it sarved ye right, an’ that ye called him ‘King William’ to spite me.”
“So I did,” said Mrs. Macfarlane, and, she added, more gently, “I’m sorry now.”
“Are ye so?” said Jim, brightening. “Faith, I’m glad to hear ye say it. We was both in the wrong, ye see, an’ if you bear no malice, I don’t.”
“Yu have been very good to me, seein’ how I misjudged you,” said Mrs. Macfarlane.
“Not a bit ov it; an’ ’twas the wife anyhow, for, begorra, I was hardened against ye, so I was.”
“An’ yu’ve spent yer money on me, an’ I——”