Her knock was too gentle.

After a moment's pause, dreading that the intended prayers might interfere with her project, she knocked yet again; but a second time her knock was overwhelmed in the gruff call of Thomas, sounding yet more peremptory than before.
"Jean, come ben to worship." "Hoot, Thamas, hae patience, man.

I canna come." "Jean, come ben to worship direckly." "I'm i' the mids' o' cleanin' the shune.

I hae dooble wark o' Mononday, ye ken." "The shune can bide." "Worship can bide." "Haud yer tongue.

The shune can bide." "Na, na; they canna bide." "Gin ye dinna come ben this minute, I'll hae worship my lane." Vanquished by the awful threat, Jean dropped the shoe she held, and turned her apron; but having to pass the door on her way to the ben-end, she saw Annie standing on the threshold, and stopped with a start, ejaculating: "The Lord preserve's, lassie!" "Jean, what are ye sweerin' at ?" cried Thomas, angrily.
"At Annie Anderson," answered Jean simply.
"What for are ye sweerin' at _her_?
I'm sure she's a douce lassie.