over, did not refuse to look on the same holy page
with her daughter’s friend, while the ploughman
read, with fitting simplicity, the parable of the
Prodigal Son. It touched something in both, but
a different something in each. Strange to say,
neither applied it to her own case, but each to her
neighbour’s. As the reader uttered the
words “was lost and is found” and ceased,
each turned to the other with a whisper. Mrs Mair
persisted in hers; and the other, which was odd enough,
yielded and listened.
“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 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 goodnight, and left her.
Notwithstanding the quarrel, Mrs Catanach did not
return without having gained something; she had learned
that Miss Horn had been foiled in what she had no
doubt was an attempt to obtain proof that Malcolm
was not the son of Mrs Stewart. The discovery
was a grateful one; for who could have told but there
might be something in existence to connect him with
another origin than she and Mrs Stewart would assign
him?
The next day the marquis returned. Almost his
first word was the desire that Malcolm should be sent
to him. But nobody knew more than that he was
missing; whereupon he sent for Duncan. The old
man explained his boy’s absence, and as soon
as he was dismissed, took his way to the town, and
called upon Miss Horn. In half an hour, the good
lady started on foot for Duff Harbour. It was
already growing dark; but there was one feeling Miss
Horn had certainly been created without, and that
was fear.
