‘You ken, Jean, it’s a mercy, “there was never a silly Jocky but there was aye as silly a Jenny,” and some canny woman, a wee bit up in years, wi no muckle to lippen to, micht have drawn up wi’ Bob and his foreman’s house and wages. And what though, she had been a thocht ill-faured?’ speculated Eppie boldly, ‘she would not ha’e made a waur wife and step-mither because of the shape of her nose or the colour of her skin. Of course I dinna mean a weel-to-do, weel-looking woman like you, Jean,’ broke off Eppie in perfect sincerity; ‘a match like that was no longer to be thought of for him. If you were inclined to change your state, you micht aspire as high as a butler or a schulemaister. But about the woman that might ha’e done for our Bob afore this mischanter--if she had not been a fule o’ a lassie--caring only for idleset and a reive at whatever pleasure came in her way--she would not ha’e been that ill aff. Puir Bob has learnt to serve hissel’ and to be easy served, and his patience wi’ these bairns o’ his, and his pleasure in them, is jist extraordinar’.’ ‘Yes,’ Jean said half abstractedly, ‘he seemed to think a deal o’ his bairns.’ ‘Nae doubt, ilka craw thinks its ain bird whitest, and Bob’s birds were aye birds o’ Paradise. No that I would deny they’re fine lasses as lasses gang, but will that prevent them being frichtet out o’ their wits if Bob has to get his arm chapped aff? and if he come round, how long will they be, think ye, of forgetting the trouble and getting out their heads? And how can I, wi’ a man and bairns and a house o’ my ain to look after, and a railway journey atween me and Bob’s family, keep the lasses out of a’ but good company, and set them down and haud them on their seats, at their seams and their knittin’, and teach them to be orderly and punctual and weel-mannered,’ said the sergeant’s wife with emphasis. ‘No that it matters muckle since it has come to the warst,’ she added the next moment, sinking back into dejection. ‘I see nae way now for them but they maun gang on the parish--that ever ony o’ my folk should come to this!’ Eppie ended with fresh tears of mingled personal mortification and grief for ‘our Bob.’ Jean tarried a couple of weeks, hearing various reports of Bob’s keeping up or giving way--of the youngest of his doctors maintaining that he would both save the arm and restore it to usefulness, only months of suffering and helplessness must intervene--of the eldest of his doctors swearing that Bob’s arm, if it were not amputated at once, would cost him his life at no distant day. Jean could bear it no longer. Her punishment, not Bob’s, was more than she could bear. She would ‘take her foot in her hand,’ go across the moor, and ask how Bob Meffin fared. She was an old enough woman to decide for herself on the desirability of such a step. She was old enough in her rank of life to be her own chaperon, and dispense with the presence of Eppie on her visit.