But he was always too much ashamed to begin to drink before the child: he hated to uncork the bottle before him.

What followed was in regular Sunday routine.
"Gang ower to Mistress Croale's, Gibbie," he said, "wi' my compliments." Away ran Gibbie, nothing loath, and at his knock was admitted.
Mistress Croale sat in the parlour, taking her tea, and expecting him.

She was always kind to the child.

She could not help feeling that no small part of what ought to be spent on him came to her; and on Sundays, therefore, partly for his sake, partly for her own, she always gave him his tea--nominally tea, really blue city-milk--with as much dry bread as he could eat, and a bit of buttered toast from her plate to finish off with.

As he ate, he stood at the other side of the table; he looked so miserable in her eyes that, even before her servant, she was ashamed to have him sit with her; but Gibbie was quite content, never thought of sitting, and ate in gladness, every now and then looking up with loving, grateful eyes, which must have gone right to the woman's heart, had it not been for a vague sense she had of being all the time his enemy--and that although she spent much time in persuading herself that she did her best both for his father and him.
When he returned, greatly refreshed, and the boots all but forgotten, he found his father, as he knew he would, already started on the business of the evening.