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Updated: June 14, 2025
The sun, still bright, was sinking towards the west, and a cold wind was blowing. He walked to the market, up to the gallery of it, and on to the farther end, greeting one and another of the keepers of the little shops, until he reached that of Mistress Croale. She was overjoyed at sight of him, and proud the neighbours saw the terms they were on.
But I s' jist gang ower to the barber's an' get a scrape, an' maybe some o' them 'ill be here or I come back." Mistress Croale knew perfectly that there was no clean shirt in George's garret. She knew also that the shirt he then wore, which probably, in consideration of her maid's festered hand, she would wash for him herself, was one of her late husband's which she had given him.
She ceased abruptly, annoyed with herself, as it seemed, for having said so much. "Ye wadna be my lady yersel', wad ye, mem?" suggested Janet in her gentlest voice. Mistress Croale made her no answer. Perhaps she thought of the days when she alone of women did the simplest of woman's offices for Sir George.
He handed it to Mistress Croale; she read, and instantly looked about for pen and ink: she dreaded seeming for a moment to hesitate. He brought them to her, she signed, and they shook hands. He then conducted her all over the house first to the rooms prepared for his study and bedroom, and next to the room in the garret, which he had left just as it was when his father died in it.
Gibbie found everything at the Auld Hoose in complete order for his reception: Mistress Croale had been very diligent, and promised well for a housekeeper looked well, too, in her black satin and lace, with her complexion, she justly flattered herself, not a little improved.
Gien ye had said to me noo the nicht, 'Come awa' ben, Mistress Croale, an' tak a plet o' cockie-leekie wi' 's; it's a cauld nicht; it's mysel' wad hae been sae upliftit wi' yer kin'ness, 'at I wad hae gane hame an' ta'en I dinna ken aiblins a read at my Bible, an' been to be seen at the kirk upo' Sunday I wad o' that ye may be sure; for it's a heap easier to gang to the kirk nor to read the buik yer lane, whaur ye canna help thinkin' upo' what it says to ye.
Only gien I was you, Maister Sclater, I wad think twise afore I made ill waur." "But hear me, Mistress Croale: it's not your besotted customers only I have to care for. Your soul is as precious in my sight as any of which I shall have to render an account." "As Mistress Bonniman's, for enstance?" suggested Mrs. Croale, interrogatively, and with just the least trace of pawkiness in the tone.
None but one much used to the water could have succeeded in the attempt, or could indeed have stood out against its weakening influence and the strain of the continued exertion together so long. At length his barrel got water-logged, and he sent it adrift. Mistress Croale was not, after all, the last who arrived at the Mains.
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