“I want to tell ye,” moaned Isy with feeble expostulation, “’at ye dinna ken wha ye hae taen intil yer hoose! Lat me up to get my breath, or I’ll no be able to tell ye.” “Drink your tea,” answered the other, “and then say what you like. There’s no hurry. You’ll have time enough.” The poor girl opened her eyes wide, and gazed for a moment at Mrs. Robertson. Then she took the cup and drank the tea. Her new friend went on— “You must just be content to bide where you are a day or two. Ye’re no to fash yersel aboot onything: I have clothes enough to give you all the change you can want. Hold your tongue, please, and finish your tea.” “Eh, mem,” cried Isy, “fowk ’ill say ill o’ ye, gien they see the like o’ me in yer hoose!” “Lat them say, and say ’t again! What’s fowk but muckle geese!” “But there’s the minister and his character!” she persisted. “Hoots! what cares the minister?” said his wife. “Speir at him there, what he thinks o’ clash.” “’Deed,” answered her husband, “I never heedit it eneuch to tell! There’s but ae word I heed, and that’s my Maister’s!” “Eh, but ye canna lift me oot o’ the pit!” groaned the poor girl. “God helpin, I can,” returned the minister. “—But ye’re no i’ the pit yet by a lang road; and oot o’ that road I s’ hae ye, please God, afore anither nicht has darkent!” “I dinna ken what’s to come o’ me!” again she groaned. “That we’ll sune see! Brakfast’s to come o’ ye first, and syne my wife and me we’ll sit in jeedgment upo ye, and redd things up. Min’ ye’re to say what ye like, and naither ill fowk nor unco guid sall come nigh ye.” A pitiful smile flitted across Isy’s face, and with it returned the almost babyish look that used to form part of her charm. Like an obedient child, she set herself to eat and drink what she could; and when she had evidently done her best— “Now put up your feet again on the sofa, and tell us everything,” said the minister. “No,” returned Isy; “I’m not at liberty to tell you _everything_.” “Then tell us what you please—so long as it’s true, and that I am sure it will be,” he rejoined. “I will, sir,” she answered. For several moments she was silent, as if thinking how to begin; then, after a gasp or two,— “I’m not a good woman,” she began. “Perhaps I am worse than you think me.—Oh, my baby! my baby!” she cried, and burst into tears. “There’s nae that mony o’ ’s just what ither fowk think us,” said the minister’s wife. “We’re in general baith better and waur nor that.—But tell me ae thing: what took ye, last nicht, straucht frae the kirk to the public? The twa haudna weel thegither!”