Although they took little pains to lower their voices, Malcolm was far too much preoccupied to hear what they said. Perceiving plainly enough that the girl’s trouble was much greater than a passing quarrel with her mother would account for, and knowing that any intercession on his part would only rouse to loftier flames the coal-pits of maternal wrath, he resolved at length to take counsel with Blue Peter and his wife, and therefore, passing the sea-gate, continued his walk along the shore, and up the red path to the village of Scaurnose.
He found them sitting at their afternoon meal of tea and oat-cake. A peat fire smouldered hot upon the hearth; a large kettle hung from a chain over it—fountain of plenty, whence the great china teapot, splendid in red flowers and green leaves, had just been filled; the mantelpiece was crowded with the gayest of crockery, including the never-absent half-shaved poodles, and the rarer Gothic castle, from the topmost story of whose keep bloomed a few late autumn flowers. Phemy too was at the table: she rose as if to leave the room, but apparently changed her mind, for she sat down again instantly.
“Man ye’re unco braw the day—i’ yer kilt an’ tartan hose!” remarked Mair as he welcomed him.
“I pat them on to please my daddy an’ the markis,” said Malcolm, with a half shamed-faced laugh.
“Are na ye some cauld aboot the k-nees?” asked the guidwife.
“Nae that cauld! I ken ’at they’re there; but I’ll sune be used till ’t.”
“Weel, sit ye doon an’ tak a cup o’ tay wi’ ’s”
“I haena muckle time to spare,” said Malcolm; “but I’ll tak a cup o’ tay wi’ ye. Gien ’t warna for wee bit luggies (small ears) I wad fain spier yer advice aboot ane ’at wants a wuman-freen’, I’m thinkin’.”
Phemy, who had been regarding him with compressed lips and suspended operations, deposited her bread and butter on the table, and slipped from her chair.
“Whaur are ye gaein’, Phemy?” said her mother.