“Wad the tale haud wi’ lassies as weel ’s laddies, Mistress Findlay, div ye think?” said Mrs Mair.
“Ow, surely!” was the response; “it maun du that. There’s no respec’ o’ persons wi’ him. There’s no a doobt but yer Phemy ’ill come hame to ye safe an’ soon’.”
“I was thinkin’ aboot Lizzy,” said the other, a little astonished; and then the prayer began, and they had to be silent.
The sermon of the ploughman was both dull and sensible,—an excellent variety where few of the sermons were either; but it made little impression on Mrs Findlay or Mrs Mair.
As they left the cave together in the crowd of issuing worshippers, Mrs Mair whispered again:
“I wad invete ye ower, but ye wad be wantin’ Lizzy hame, an’ I can ill spare the comfort o’ her the noo,” she said, with the cunning of a dove.
“An’ what comes o’ me?” rejoined Mrs Findlay, her claws out in a moment where her personal consequence was touched.
“Ye wadna surely tak her frae me a’ at ance!” pleaded Mrs Mair. “Ye micht lat her bide—jist till Phemy comes hame; an’ syne——”
But there she broke down; and the tempest of sobs that followed quite overcame the heart of Mrs Findlay. She was, in truth, a woman like another; only being of the crustacean order, she had not yet swallowed her skeleton, as all of us have to do more or less, sooner or later, the idea of that scaffolding being that it should be out of sight. With the best commonplaces at her command she sought to comfort her companion; walked with her to the foot of the red path; found her much more to her mind than Mrs Catanach: seemed inclined to go with her all the way, but suddenly stopped, bade her good-night, and left her.