Ere she went, however, Jean saw that the kitchen door was closed, for, whether she belonged to the class “honest folk” or not, Mrs Catanach was in Miss Horn’s kitchen, and not in her nightcap.
Jean returned presently with an invitation for Malcolm to walk up to the parlour.
“I hae gotten a sma’ mishanter, Miss Horn,” he said, as he entered: “an I thocht I cudna du better than come to you, ’cause ye can haud yer tongue, an’ that’s mair nor mony ane the port o’ Portlossie can, mem.”
The compliment, correct in fact as well as honest in intent, was not thrown away on Miss Horn, to whom it was the more pleasing that she could regard it as a just tribute. Malcolm told her all the story, rousing thereby a mighty indignation in her bosom, a great fire in her hawk-nose, and a succession of wild flashes in her hawk-eyes; but when he showed her his hand,
“Lord, Malcolm!” she cried; “it’s a mercy I was made wantin’ feelin’s, or I cudna hae bed the sicht. My puir bairn!”
Then she rushed to the stair and shouted,—
“Jean, ye limmer! Jean! Fess some het watter, an’ some linen cloots.”
“I hae nane o’ naither,” replied Jean from the bottom of the stair.
“Mak up the fire an’ put on some watter direckly.—I s’ fin’ some clooties,” she added, turning to Malcolm, “—gien I sud rive the tail frae my best Sunday sark.”
She returned with rags enough for a small hospital, and until the grumbling Jean brought the hot water, they sat and talked in the glimmering light of one long-beaked tallow candle.