Mrs. Morran all forenoon was in a state of un-Sabbatical disquiet.
After she had seen Saskia and Dickson start she finished her
housewifely duties, took Cousin Eugenie her breakfast, and made
preparation for the midday dinner. The invalid in the bed in the
parlour was not a repaying subject. Cousin Eugenie belonged
to that type of elderly women who, having been spoiled in youth,
find the rest of life fall far short of their expectations.
Her voice had acquired a perpetual wail, and the corners of what
had once been a pretty mouth drooped in an eternal peevishness.
She found herself in a morass of misery and shabby discomfort,
but had her days continued in an even tenor she would still
have lamented. "A dingy body," was Mrs. Morran's comment,
but she laboured in kindness. Unhappily they had no common
language, and it was only by signs that the hostess could discover
her wants and show her goodwill. She fed her and bathed her face,
saw to the fire and left her to sleep. "I'm boilin' a hen to mak'
broth for your denner, Mem. Try and get a bit sleep now."
The purport of the advice was clear, and Cousin Eugenie turned
obediently on her pillow.

It was Mrs. Morran's custom of a Sunday to spend the morning in
devout meditation. Some years before she had given up tramping the
five miles to kirk, on the ground that having been a regular attendant
for fifty years she had got all the good out of it that was probable.
Instead she read slowly aloud to herself the sermon printed in a
certain religious weekly which reached her every Saturday, and
concluded with a chapter or two of the Bible. But to-day something
had gone wrong with her mind. She could not follow the thread of the
Reverend Doctor MacMichael's discourse. She could not fix her