Mrs. Veitch, in anything that matters. Well, will you give Kate the message, and tell her not to doubt my word again? I'm frightfully hurt——"
"Ay," said Mrs. Veitch. "Weel, ye see, she's no' used wi' customers that are easy to please. Are ye for aff?"
"Yes, I must go. Oh! may I see the room? It was being papered the last time I was here. Was the paper a success?"
Instead of replying, Mrs. Veitch marched across the passage and threw open the door with an air.
Elizabeth had a way of throwing her whole heart into the subject that interested her for the moment, and it surprised and pleased people to find this large and beautiful person taking such a passionate (if passing) interest in them and their concerns.
Now it was obvious she was thinking of nothing in the world but this little best parlour with its newly papered walls.
After approving the new wall-paper, she proceeded to examine intently the old steel engravings in their deep rose-wood frames. The subjects were varied: "The Murder of Archbishop Sharp" hung above a chest of drawers; "John Knox dispensing the Communion" was skyed above the sideboard; "Burns at the Plough being crowned by the Spirit of Poesy" was partially concealed behind the door; while over the fireplace brooded the face of that great divine, Robert Murray M'Cheyne. These and a fine old bureau filled with china proclaimed their owner as being "better," of having come from people who could bequeath goods and gear to their descendants. Elizabeth admired the bureau and feasted her eyes on the china.
"Just look at these cups—isn't it a brave blue?"
"Ay," said Mrs. Veitch rather uncertainly; "they were ma granny's. I wud raither hev hed rose-buds masel'—an' that wide shape cools the tea awfu' quick." She nodded mysteriously toward the door at the side of the fire which hid the concealed bed. "We've got a lodger," she said.
"What!" cried Elizabeth, startled. "Is she in there now?"
"Now!" said Mrs. Veitch in fine scorn. "What for wud she be in the now? She's at her wark. She's in a shop in Argyle Street."
"Oh!" said Elizabeth. "Is she a nice lodger?"
"Verra quiet; gives no trouble," said Mrs. Veitch.
"And you'll make her so comfortable. Do you bake treacle scones for her? If you do, she'll never leave you."
"I was bakin' this verra day. Could ye—wud it bother ye to carry a scone hame? Mr. Seton's terrible fond o' treacle scone. I made him a cup o' tea wan day he cam' in and he ett yin tae't, he said he hedna tastit onything as guid sin' he was a callant."
"I know," said Elizabeth. "He told me. Of course I can carry the scones, if you can spare them."
In a moment Mrs. Veitch had got several scones pushed into a baker's bag and was thrusting it into Elizabeth's hands.
"I'll keep it dry under my waterproof," Elizabeth promised her. "My umbrella? Did I leave it at the door?"
"It's drippin' in the sink. Here it's. Good-bye, then."
"Good-bye, and very many thanks for everything—the subscription and the scones—and letting me see your room."
At the next house she made no long visitation. It was washing-day, and the mistress of the house was struggling with piles of wet clothes, sorting them out with red, soda-wrinkled hands, and hanging them on pulleys round the kitchen. Having got the subscription, Elizabeth tarried not an unnecessary moment.
"What a nuisance I am!" she said to herself as the door closed behind her. "Me and my old Zenana Mission. It's a wonder she didn't give me a push downstairs, poor worried body!"
The next contributor had evidently gone out for the afternoon, and Elizabeth reflected ruefully that it meant another pilgrimage another day. The number of the next was given in the book as 171, but she paused uncertainly, remembering that there had been some mistake last year, and doubting if she had put it right. At 171 a boy was lounging, whittling a stick.
"Is there anyone called Campbell in this close?" she asked him.
"Wait yo here," said the boy, "an' I'll rin up and see." He returned in a minute.
"Naw—nae Cam'l. There's a Robison an' a M'Intosh an' twa Irish-lukin' names. That's a'. Twa hooses emp'y."
"Thank you very much. It was kind of you to go and look. D'you live near here?"
"Ay." The boy jerked his head backwards to indicate the direction. "Thistle Street."
"I see." Elizabeth was going to move on when a thought came to her. "D'you go to any Sunday school?"
"Me? Naw!" He looked up with an impudent grin. "A'm what ye ca' a Jew."
Elizabeth smiled down at the little snub-nosed face. "No, my son. Whatever you are, you're not that. Listen—d'you know the church just round the corner?"
"Seton's kirk?"
"Yes. Seton's kirk. I have a class there every Sunday afternoon at five o'clock—six boys just about your age. Will you come?"
"A hevna claes nor naething."
"Never mind; neither have the others. What's your name?"
"Bob Scott."
"Well, Bob, I do wish you'd promise. We have such good times."
Bob looked sceptical.
"A whiles gang to Sabbath schules," he said, "juist till the swuree comes aff, and then A leave." His tone suggested that in his opinion Sabbath schools and good times were things far apart.
"I see. Well, we're having a Christmas-tree quite soon. You might try the class till then. You'll come some Sunday? That's good. Now, if I were you I would go home out of the rain."
Bob had resumed his whittling, and he looked carefully at his work as he said:
"I canna gang hame for ma faither: he's drunk, and he'll no' let's in."
"Have you had any dinner?"
"Uch, no. A'm no heedin' for't," with a fine carelessness.
Elizabeth tilted her umbrella over her shoulder the better to survey the situation. There was certainly little prospect of refreshment in this grey street which seemed to contain nothing but rain, but the sharp ting-ting of an electric tram passing in the street above brought her an idea, and she caught the boy's arm.
"Come on, Bob, and we'll see what we can get."
Two minutes brought them to a baker's shop, with very good-looking things in the window and a fat, comfortable woman behind the counter.
"Isn't this a horrible day, Mrs. Russel?" said Elizabeth. "And here's a friend of mine who wants warming up. What could you give him to eat, I wonder?"
Mrs. Russel beamed as if feeding little dirty ragged boys was just the thing she liked best to do.
"It's an awful day, as you say, Miss Seton, an' the boy's wet through. Whit would ye say to a hot tupp'ny pie an' a cup-o'-tea? The kettle's juist on the boil; I've been havin' a cup
