“Muim’-à-ghraidh, is it tired you are, an’ this so fine a time, too?”
With a quick gesture, the old woman glanced at him.
“Ah, child, is that you indeed? Well, I am glad of that, for I have the trouble again.”
“What trouble, Muim’-ghaolaiche?”
But the old woman did not answer. Wearily she turned her face to the peat-glow again.
Alasdair seated himself on the big wooden chair to her right. For a time he stayed silent thus, staring into the red heart of the peats. What was the gloom upon the old heart that he loved? What trouble was it?
At last he rose and put meal and water into the iron pot, and stirred the porridge while it seethed and sputtered. Then he poured boiling water upon the tea in the brown jenny, and put the new bread and the sweet-milk scones on the rude deal board that was the table.
“Come, dear tired old heart,” he said, “and let us give thanks to the Being.”
“Blessings and thanks,” she said, and turned round.
Alasdair poured out the porridge, and watched the steam rise. Then he sat down, with a knife in one hand and the brown-white loaf in the other.