"Yes. No--there was one between--Katie Herd. She stayed a month and was doing very well, but she suddenly announced that she was going home. When we asked her why, she replied with great candour, 'I dinna like it verra weel,' and off she went. Marget was a success from the first. We knew it was all right as soon as she began to talk of 'oor bairns.' When the work was over she liked to go to the nursery, and you children welcomed her with enthusiasm, and at once called on her to say her poem. Then she would stand up and shuffle her feet, and say: 'Marget Meikle is ma name, Scotland is ma nation, Harehope is ma dwelling place-- A pleasant habitation.' You delighted in her witticisms. 'Ca' me names, ca' me onything, but dinna ca' me ower,' was one that had a great success. Both she and Ellie were ideal servants for a minister's house; they were both so discreet. No tales were ever carried by them to or from the Manse. There was one noted gossip in the congregation who was a terror to Ellie. Her husband had a shop, and of course we dealt at it--he was an elder in the church--and Ellie dreaded going in, for she knew that if Mrs. Beaton happened to be there she would be subjected to a fire of questions. Marget enjoyed an encounter, and liked to think out ways of defeating Mrs. Beaton's curiosity. Not that there was any harm in Mrs. Beaton and her desire to know all our doings. I dare say it was only kindly interest. I got to like her very much; she was a racy talker and full of whinstone common sense. I was sorry for her, too, for no woman ever worked harder, both in the shop and in the house, and her husband and family took it all for granted. She did kind things in an ungracious way, and was vexed when people failed to appreciate her kindness. Across the road from Mrs. Beaton lived another elder's wife, Mrs. Lister, who, Mrs. Beaton thought, got from life the very things she had missed. "'Never toil yourself to death,' she used to tell me, 'for your man and your bairns; they'll no thank you for it. Look at the Listers over there. Willie Lister goes about with holes like half-crowns in his heels, but he thinks the world of his Aggie.' And it was quite true. I knew that gentle little Mrs. Lister was everybody's favourite, for she contradicted no one, ruffled no one's feelings, while rough-tongued, honest, impudent Mrs. Beaton was both feared and disliked. And yet there was no doubt which of the two women one would have chosen to ride the ford with. Had a tea-meeting to be arranged, a sale of work to be organised, or a Christmas-tree to be provided for Sunday school, Mrs. Beaton was in it--purse and person.