“Eh, woman! if I had been like that how could I have brought you all up?” said the mother. “Seven of a family, and no a penny nor a penny’s worth in the world. Do ye think I hadna often a sair heart? and many a time darena sit down, for fear I should be ower tired to rise again. What are your bits of trouble to that?” “Do you call yon a bit trouble?” said Agnes, pointing to her sister’s bed. The mother’s countenance darkened; she turned towards the fire again, turning her back on her sick daughter. “I dinna call that trouble at all,” she said; “that’s sin and shame.” “Eh, mother, ye’re hard, hard! will ye never believe it--not even since you’ve seen Miss--her man’s sister. Will ye no believe her, even now?” “Dinna speak to me of her man,” said the old woman indignantly, pouring the boiling water upon the tea with a certain vindictive movement. All this conversation was carried on in an undernote, that Isabell might not hear. “Her man has been a bonnie man to her; whatever was his meaning; he’s brought her naething but misery and shame. What had she to do, giving ear to ane o’ thae gentlemen with their false tongues? Gentlemen! I wouldna give an honest man for ten gentlemen--and so it’s seen. Give her her tea; I havena the heart to look at her white face,” said the mother, turning away; she went and sat down noiselessly in the room, and put up her apron to her eyes. How many different kinds of suffering were shut up there together, all separate, and keeping themselves apart! The tea was made in silence--the one cordial of poor women’s lives--and then the little group subsided once more into their places. “Have you any word from John?” said the mother, this time loud enough for all to hear. “I have aye word from John,” said Agnes, with a tone of indignation; “whatever happens, he never misses his day.” “But you’ve come to nae settlement yet about what’s to be done. It’s a wise bargain you’ve made, him and you--as wise almost as some other folk; to wait--till when?” “Till I’m gone, mother!” said Isabell. “Oh, if you would have patience! I’ll no be long. I feel the wheel breaking at the fountain, and the silver chain being sundered, as the Bible says. When I’m gone, there will be nae motive for keeping up all this trouble. I’ve been making a terrible stir and commotion, I know that; no for me--and yet I mustna conceal the truth--I had some thought for myself, too; to die so young is sore enough without shame. But if God will have me bear shame, I must put up with it; and you must put up with it, Agnes. John’s a good man; he’ll never upbraid you with your poor sister, that ye did so much for; and you’ll take my bairn. He’ll never ken he had a mother but you--and you’ll be good--oh, you’ll be good to him! No, why should I greet?” she went on, looking with apparent surprise at a tiny drop that fell on her coverlet; “we must accept what God sends.”