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"Night watchman, now it's the only job he could be doin', he's that sick, poor body." Sandy McQuarry looked obstinate. "I was thinkin' o' settin' our Peter at that job this summer." "Eh? But you could be helping the Lord to give the poor man better days, Sandy, and that would be grand work, whatever. Eh, indeed, indeed, we can never tell, when we do a kind act, how far it will reach."
The orphans could never be accused of stiffness or formality. "Hello!" cried the minister, with equal cordiality. His eyes were shining, and he looked as though he had just received great and good news. "Ain't he mad at ye any more?" asked Tim, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to indicate Sandy McQuarry, the way he had seen his father do. The minister's eyes grew brighter.
Folks declared it was scandalous the way Ella Anne carried on with those two fellows of hers, never giving either one more chance than the other, and it would be a caution if she wasn't left again, the way she was when young McQuarry married the squaw. Ella Anne's conduct caused consternation in the Long family, too.
Pete McQuarry declared that it kept a fellow puffing just to stay anywheres on the King's Highway, without bothering about the middle; and Davy Munn did not even attempt the feat, but sang the air an octave lower.
"Fine night," said a voice with a deep Scottish burr. "Fine," acquiesced the milkstand. "Oh, and it will be you, Sandy?" said Uncle Hughie, making room for the newcomer beside him. "Come away, man, come away." Sandy McQuarry was a thick-set man, with a face like a Skye terrier.
Sandy McQuarry was red with rage. "D'ye want me to run over ye, ye thrawn piece o' humanity, ye?" he shouted. The Duke did not appear to hear him. He rose to his feet, whip in hand. "Jemima Weir!" he thundered, "will ye, or will ye no step off that road and let me drive on?" "I will no!" answered the Duke, with unkind emphasis. The man raised his whip over his horses' backs and then paused.
"Ony man," he announced darkly, "that's so licht in his heid that he doesna ken ony better than to liken the land o' Burns to a few miles o' barren stones, is no a fit person to expound the Word o' God." The milkstand began to look uncomfortable. There had been a day when Sandy McQuarry was an elder in the church, and as stanch a friend as the minister possessed.
Sandy McQuarry had been away in Lakeview all day, and did not hear it until he was seated with his family and the mill-hands at the supper table. Miss Euphemia, his sister, who had been his housekeeper since Sandy's wife, as folks said, worked herself to death, was the first who dared to broach the subject, any reference to Mr. Scott being rather hazardous.
Winters made a threatening movement toward the door. "It jist makes them run all the harder, an' mebby they'll get as far as the pond. We'd better jist let them be." "Well, go on wi' your story, Hannah," said old Miss McQuarry. "What possessed ye to take all the bairns, wumman?" Mrs. Sawyer folded her hands in her lap and continued: "It kind o' came on us gradual like.
But the hens had still to be conquered, so the orphans set to work and built around the back yard a lofty fence of wire and laths, borrowed from the sawmill when Sandy McQuarry was away. Inside this the Twelve Tribes were shut up in Egyptian bondage until the garden was in bloom.
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