404 The Little Minister

meet hers, as you may touch your reflection in a
mirtor. But this face was not her own. It was
white and sad. Jean suppressed a cry, and let
the blind fall, as if shutting the lid on some
uncanny thing.

“Won't you let me in?” said a voice that
might have been only the sob of a rain-beaten
wind; “I am nearly drowned.”

Jean stood like death ; but her supplant would
not pass on.

“You are not afraid?” the voice continued.
“Raise the blind again, and you will see that no
one need fear me.”

At this request Jean’s hands sought each other’s
company behind her back.

“Wha are you?” she asked, without stirring.
“« Are you — the woman?”

eg.

“ Whaur’s the minister?”

The rain again became wild, but: this time it
only tore by the manse as if to a conflict beyond.

“ Are you aye there? I daurna let you in till
I’m sure the mistress is bedded. Gang round to
the front, and see if there’s ony licht burning in
the high west window.”

“There was a light,” the voice said, presently,
“but it was turned out as I looked.”

“Then [ll let you in, and God kens I mean
no wrang by it.”

Babbie entered shivering, and Jean rebarred
the door. Then she looked long at the woman
whom her master loved. Babbie was on her
knees at the hearth, holding out her hands to the
dead fire.