be Jean come in frae the pump," she reflected, after a moment's
pause; but, hearing no footstep along the passage to the kitchen,
concluded--"It's no her, for she gangs aboot the hoose like the
fore half o' a new shod cowt;" and went down the stair to see who
might have thus presumed to enter unbidden.

In the kitchen, the floor of which was as white as scrubbing could
make it, and sprinkled with sea sand--under the gaily painted
Dutch clock, which went on ticking as loud as ever, though just
below the dead--sat a woman about sixty years of age, whose plump
face to the first glance looked kindly, to the second, cunning,
and to the third, evil. To the last look the plumpness appeared
unhealthy, suggesting a doughy indentation to the finger, and its
colour also was pasty. Her deep set, black bright eyes, glowing
from under the darkest of eyebrows, which met over her nose, had
something of a fascinating influence--so much of it that at a
first interview one was not likely for a time to notice any other
of her features. She rose as Miss Horn entered, buried a fat fist
in a soft side, and stood silent.

"Weel?" said Miss Horn interrogatively, and was silent also.

"I thocht ye micht want a cast o' my callin'," said the woman.

"Na, na; there's no a han' 'at s' lay finger upo' the bairn but
mine ain," said Miss Horn. "I had it a' ower, my lee lane, afore the
skreigh o' day. She's lyin' quaiet noo--verra quaiet--waitin'
upo' Watty Witherspail. Whan he fesses hame her bit boxie, we s'
hae her laid canny intill 't, an' hae dune wi' 't."