"I'll stay till one or other of them comes," said the doctor; and he sat down by the bedside, and did not listen to the history of Bell's last severe attack. His ears were at the door, and when he heard a movement outside he went and looked out; but it was only an old beggar-woman he saw, much bent with age and with her head pearled. She was the impersonation of clean, decent, thread-bare poverty: she had a plain snowy muslin mutch close round her face, which was small and wrinkled, and a black ribbon bound round her head, as the fashion used to be. A basket with some pins and tapes in it served as a kind of apology for her visit.
When she saw the doctor she said, "Maybe ye wad tak some preens frae a puir auld body that can neither work nor want?"
She spoke in a thin, shaky voice, and Dr. Brunton's compassion was moved. "Do you belong to this district?" he asked.
"'Deed, div I, sir. Eh, but auld age and poverty are ill neighbors!"
"You ought to be looked after: have you ever applied for relief?"
"Frae the parish? Na, nane o' our family hae come to that yet, let me be thankfu', and I'll mak a fend without it."
"Then how do you live?"
"Ye may say that. Whiles the young leddies at the castle gie me a pickle tea or the like—that's the youngest ane, her they ca' Leddy Louisa: she's just an angel o' licht. Eh, if a' body was like her!"
"I'll inquire into your case and see that something is done for your comfort."
"Oh, mony thanks, sir! I'm no very able noo to travel wi' the basket. Eh, what time does! Little did I think I wad ever come to this."