“Ah, I prefer less uncommon girls,” McLean said.  “They should not have let her have her wish; it can only do her harm.”

“That is another curious thing,” replied the doctor.  “It does not seem to have done her harm; rather it has turned her from being a dour, silent crittur into a talkative one, and that, I take it, is a sign of grace.”

He sighed, and added:  “Not that I can get her to talk of herself and her mother. (There is a mystery about them, you understand.) No, the obstinate brat will tell me nothing on that subject; instead of answering my questions she asks questions of me—­an endless rush of questions, and all about Ballingall.  How did I know he was dying?  When you put your fingers on their wrist, what is it you count? which is the place where the lungs are? when you tap their chest what do you listen for? are they not dying as long as they can rise now and then, and dress and go out? when they are really dying do they always know it themselves?  If they don’t know it, is that a sign that they are not so ill as you think them?  When they don’t know they are dying, is it best to keep it from them in case they should scream with terror? and so on in a spate of questions, till I called her the Longer Catechism.”

“And only morbid curiosity prompted her?”

“Nothing else,” said the confident doctor; “if there had been anything else I should have found it out, you may be sure.  However, unhealthily minded though she be, the women who took their turn at Ballingall’s bedside were glad of her help.”

“The more shame to them,” McLean remarked warmly; but the doctor would let no one, save himself, miscall the women of Thrums.

“Ca’ canny,” he retorted.  “The women of this place are as overdriven as the men, from the day they have the strength to turn a pirn-wheel to the day they crawl over their bed-board for the last time, but never yet have I said, ‘I need one of you to sit up all night wi’ an unweel body,’ but what there were half a dozen willing to do it.  They are a grand race, sir, and will remain so till they find it out themselves.”

“But of what use could a girl of twelve or fourteen be to them?”

“Use!” McQueen cried.  “Man, she has been simply a treasure, and but for one thing I would believe it was less a morbid mind than a sort of divine instinct for nursing that took her to Ballingall’s bedside.  The women do their best in a rough and ready way; but, sir, it cowed to see that lassie easying a pillow for Ballingall’s head, or changing a sheet without letting in the air, or getting a poultice on his back without disturbing the one on his chest.  I had just to let her see how to do these things once, and after that Ballingall complained if any other soul touched him.”

“Ah,” said McLean, “then perhaps I was uncharitable, and the nurse’s instinct is the true explanation.”

“No, you’re wrong again, though I might have been taken in as well as you but for the one thing I spoke of.  Three days ago Ballingall had a ghost of a chance of pulling through, I thought, and I told the lassie that if he did, the credit would be mainly hers.  You’ll scarcely believe it, but, upon my word, she looked disappointed rather than pleased, and she said to me, quite reproachfully, ‘You told me he was sure to die!’ What do you make of that?”