Before the dressing of little Davie was over, I had _my_ question to put to Kirsty.

It was, in fact, the same question, only with a more important object in the eye of it.
"_Then_ I suppose God made Mrs.Mitchell, as well as you and the rest of us, Kirsty ?" I said.
"Certainly, Ranald," returned Kirsty.
"Well, I wish he hadn't," was my remark, in which I only imitated my baby brother, who was always much cleverer than I.
"Oh! she's not a bad sort," said Kirsty; "though I must say, if I was her, I would try to be a little more agreeable." To return to Kirsty: she was our constant resort.

The farmhouse was a furlong or so from the manse, but with the blood pouring from a cut finger, the feet would of themselves devour that furlong rather than apply to Mrs.Mitchell.

Oh! she was dear, and good, and kind, our Kirsty! In person she was short and slender, with keen blue eyes and dark hair; an uncommonly small foot, which she claimed for all Highland folk; a light step, a sweet voice, and a most bounteous hand--but there I come into the moral nature of her, for it is the mind that makes the hand bountiful.

For her face, I think that was rather queer, but in truth I can hardly tell, so entirely was it the sign of good to me and my brothers; in short, I loved her so much that I do not know now, even as I did not care then, whether she was nice-looking or not.
She was quite as old as Mrs.Mitchell, but we never thought of _her_ being old.