scoorin' aboot the toon yon gait -- wi' little o' a jacket but the
collar, an' naething o' the breeks but the doup -- eh, wuman! it maks
a mither's hert sair to luik upo' 't. It's a providence 'at his
mither's weel awa' an' canna see't; it wad gar her turn in her
grave."

George was the first arrival at Mistress Croale's that night. He
opened the door of the shop like a thief, and glided softly into the
dim parlour, where the candles were not yet lit. There was light
enough, however, from the busy little fire in the grate to show the
clean sanded floor which it crossed with flickering shadows, the
coloured prints and cases of stuffed birds on the walls, the
full-rigged barque suspended from the centre of the ceiling, and,
chief of all shows of heaven or earth, the black bottle on the
table, with the tumblers, each holding its ladle, and its wine glass
turned bottom upwards. Nor must I omit a part without which the
rest could not have been a whole -- the kettle of water that sat on
the hob, softly crooning. Compared with the place where George had
been at work all day, this was indeed an earthly paradise. Nor was
the presence and appearance of Mistress Croale an insignificant
element in the paradisial character of the place. She was now in a
clean white cap with blue ribbons. Her hair was neatly divided, and
drawn back from her forehead. Every trace of dirt and untidiness
had disappeared from her person, which was one of importance both in
size and in bearing. She wore a gown of some dark stuff with bright
flowers on it, and a black silk apron. Her face was composed,
almost to sadness, and throughout the evening, during which she
waited in person upon her customers, she comported herself with such
dignity, that her slow step and stately carriage seemed rather to
belong to the assistant at some religious ceremony than to one who