r. Sclater, afraid
of offending Sir Gilbert, hesitated on the advance to prevent her.
How friendly the warm air felt! how consoling the crimson walls
with the soft flicker of the great fire upon them! how delicious the
odour of the cockie-leekie! She could give up whisky a good deal
more easily, she thought, if she had the comforts of a minister to
fall back upon! And this was the same minister who had once told
her that her soul was as precious to him as that of any other in his
parish--and then driven her from respectable Jink Lane to the
disreputable Daurfoot! It all passed through her mind in a flash,
while yet Gibbie pulled and she resisted.

"Gilbert, come here," called Mrs. Sclater.

He went to her side, obedient and trusting as a child.

"Really, Gilbert, you must not," she said, rather loud for a
whisper. "It won't do to turn things upside down this way. If you
are to be a gentleman, and an inmate of my house, you must behave
like other people. I cannot have a woman like that sitting at my
table.--Do you know what sort of a person she is?"

Gibbie's face shone up. He raised his hands. He was already able
to talk a little.

"Is she a sinner?" he asked on his fingers.

Mrs. Sclater nodded.

Gibbie wheeled round, and sprang back to the hall, whither the
minister had, coming down upon her, bows on, like a sea-shouldering
whale, in a manner ejected Mistress Croale, and where he was now
talking to her with an air of confidential condescension, willing to
wipe out any feeling of injury she might perhaps be inclined to
cherish at not being made more welcome: to his consternation, Gibbie
threw his arms round her neck, and gave her a great hug.

"Sir Gilbert!" he exclaimed, very angry, and the more angry that he
knew he was in the right, "leave Mistress Croale alone, and go back
to your dinner immediately.--Jane, open the door."

Jane opened the door, Gibbie let her go, and Mrs. Croale went. But
on the threshold she turned.

"Weel, sir," she said, with more severity than pique, and a certain
sad injury not unmingled with dignity, "ye hae stappit ower my
door-sill mony's the time, an' that wi' sairer words i' yer moo' nor
I ever mintit at peyin' ye back; an' I never said to ye gang. Sae
first ye turnt me oot o' my ain hoose, an' noo ye turn me oot o'
yours; an' what's left ye to turn me oot o' but the hoose o' the
Lord? An', 'deed, sir, ye need never won'er gien the likes o' me
disna care abo