An' sae as ye wad gang the len'th o' a glaiss o' whusky--" "Ye s' get nae whusky here," interrupted Jean, with determination.
The woman gave a sigh, and half turned away as if she would depart.
But however she might have come, it was plainly impossible she should depart and live.
"Wuman," said Jean, "ken an' I care naething aboot ye, an' mair, I dinna like ye, nor the luik o' ye; and gien 't war a fine simmer nicht 'at a body cud lie thereoot, or gang the farther, I wad steek the door i' yer face; but that I daurna dee the day again' my neebour's soo; sae ye can come in an' sit doon' an', my min' spoken, ye s' get what'll haud the life i' ye, an' a puckle strae i' the barn.

Only ye maun jist hae a quaiet sough, for the gudeman disna like tramps." "Tramps here, tramps there!" exclaimed the woman, starting into high displeasure; "I wad hae ye ken I'm an honest wuman, an' no tramp!" "Ye sudna luik sae like ane than," said Jean coolly.

"But come yer wa's in, an' I s' say naething sae lang as ye behave." The woman followed her, took the seat pointed out to her by the fire, and sullenly ate, without a word of thanks, the cakes and milk handed her, but seemed to grow better tempered as she ate, though her black eyes glowed at the food with something of disgust and more of contempt: she would rather have had a gill of whisky than all the milk on the Mains.

On the other side of the fire sat Janet, knitting away busily, with a look of ease and leisure.

She said nothing, but now and then cast a kindly glance out of her grey eyes at the woman: there was an air of the lost sheep about the stranger, which, in whomsoever she might see it, always drew her affection.
"She maun be ane o' them the Maister cam' to ca'," she said to herself.