Facing the broad south, and leaning against the hill, as against the bosom of God, sheltering it from the north and east, the cottage looked so high-humble, so still, so confident, that it drew Gibbie with the spell of heart-likeness.

He knocked at the old, weather-beaten, shrunk and rent, but well patched door.

A voice, alive with the soft vibrations of thought and feeling, answered, "Come yer wa's in, whae'er ye be." Gibbie pulled the string that came through a hole in the door, so lifting the latch, and entered.
A woman sat on a creepie, her face turned over her shoulder to see who came.

It was a grey face, with good simple features and clear grey eyes.

The plentiful hair that grew low on her forehead, was half grey, mostly covered by a white cap with frills.