For to a Scottish woman few things would seem more dreadful than for her mother to come to want—the tie of relationship is so strong and sacred.
Talking in this sober fashion, the farmer and his neighbour jogged on until they reached the skirts of the moor, soon after six o'clock.
"We've escaped the rain," said the farmer; "but to all appearance, it won't hold off much longer."
Presently Mrs. McDougall alighted, and with a few words of thanks, turned up the pathway leading to her own cottage. To her surprise, she found grannie and Robbie standing at the gate, peering along the road.
"Am I late?" she exclaimed. "You weren't thinking I was lost, were you?"
"It's the bairns we were looking for," quavered the old woman. "They're not home from school yet, an' there's no milk for your supper, for I would no trust Robbie alone."
"Of course not," Mrs. McDougall said, hastily; "but they should ha' been home long ago. They would not loiter on the way all this time, surely."
"That's what I've been thinking," the old woman returned. "Could any harm come to them?"
"Of course it could. Ye need not doubt that," said Mrs. McDougall. "I must go right away, and see after them; but I am just tired, and that's the truth."
"You'll sit down, Meg, and have a bit o' something first," the old woman said anxiously, hovering round in speechless sympathy.