He had known Peter Blatherwick for many years, and
honoured him as one in whom there was no guile; and now the desire to see
him came upon him: he wanted to share with him the pleasure and benefit he
had gathered from Sunday's sermon, and show the better quality of the food
their pastor had that day laid before his sheep. He knocked at the door,
thinking to see the mistress, and hear from her where her husband was
likely to be found; but to his surprise, the farmer came himself to the
door, where he stood in silence, with a look that seemed to say, "I know
you; but what can you be wanting with me?" His face was troubled, and
looked not only sorrowful, but scared as well. Usually ruddy with health,
and calm with content, it was now blotted with pallid shades, and seemed,
as he held the door-handle without a word of welcome, that of one aware of
something unseen behind him.
"What ails ye, Mr. Bletherwick?" asked the soutar, in a voice that faltered
with sympathetic anxiety. "Surely--I houp there's naething come ower the
mistress!"
"Na, I thank ye; she's vera weel.
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