“Nothing, nothing.”

The words jumped from Jean to save Margaret from falling.  Now she could not take them back.  “I winna believe it o’ him,” said Jean to herself.  “Let them say what they will, I’ll be true to him; and when he comes back he’ll find her as he left her.”

“It was Lang Tammas,” she answered her mistress; “but he just came to say that—­”

“Quick, Jean! what?”

“Mr. Dishart has been called to a sick-bed in the country, ma’am—­ to the farm o’ Look-About-You; and as it’s sic a rain, he’s to bide there a’ nicht.”

“And Whamond came through that rain to tell me this?  How good of him.  Was there any other message?”

“Just that the minister hoped you would go straight to your bed, ma’am,” said Jean, thinking to herself, “There can be no great sin in giving her one mair happy nicht; it may be her last.”

The two women talked for a short time, and then read verse about in the parlor from the third chapter of Mark.

“This is the first night we have been left alone in the manse,” Margaret said, as she was retiring to her bedroom,” and we must not grudge the minister to those who have sore need of him.  I notice that you have barred the doors.”

“Ay, they’re barred.  Nobody can win in the nicht.”

“Nobody will want in, Jean,” Margaret said, smiling.

“I dinna ken about that,” answered Jean below her breath.  “Ay, ma’am, may you sleep for baith o’ us this nicht, for I daurna gang to my bed.”

Jean was both right and wrong, for two persons wanted in within the next half-hour, and she opened the door to both of them.  The first to come was Babbie.

So long as women sit up of nights listening for a footstep, will they flatten their faces at the window, though all without be black.  Jean had not been back in the kitchen for two minutes before she raised the blind.  Her eyes were close to the glass, when she saw another face almost meet hers, as you may touch your reflection in a mirror.  But this face was not her own.  It was white and sad.  Jean suppressed a cry, and let the blind fall, as if shutting the lid on some uncanny thing.

“Won’t you let me in?” said a voice that might have been only the sob of a rain-beaten wind; “I am nearly drowned.”

Jean stood like death; but her suppliant would not pass on.

“You are not afraid?” the voice continued.  “Raise the blind again, and you will see that no one need fear me.”

At this request Jean’s hands sought each other’s company behind her back.

“Wha are you?” she asked, without stirring.  “Are you—­the woman?”

“Yes.”

“Whaur’s the minister?”

The rain again became wild, but this time it only tore by the manse as if to a conflict beyond.

“Are you aye there?  I daurna let you in till I’m sure the mistress is bedded.  Gang round to the front, and see if there’s ony licht burning in the high west window.”