"Jean, come ben to worship."
"Hoot, Thamas, hae patience, man. I canna come."
"Jean, come ben to worship direckly."
"I'm i' the mids' o' cleanin' the shune. I hae dooble wark o' Mononday,
ye ken."
"The shune can bide."
"Worship can bide."
"Haud yer tongue. The shune can bide."
"Na, na; they canna bide."
"Gin ye dinna come ben this minute, I'll hae worship my lane."
Vanquished by the awful threat, Jean dropped the shoe she held, and
turned her apron; but having to pass the door on her way to the
ben-end, she saw Annie standing on the threshold, and stopped with a
start, ejaculating:
"The Lord preserve's, lassie!"
"Jean, what are ye sweerin' at?" cried Thomas, angrily.
"At Annie Anderson," answered Jean simply.
"What for are ye sweerin' at _her_? I'm sure she's a douce lassie. What
does the bairn want?"
"What do ye want, Annie?"
"I want to see Thomas, gin ye please," answered Annie.
"She wants to see you, Thomas," screamed Jean; remarking in a lower
voice, "He's as deef's a door-nail, Annie Anderson."
"Lat her come in, than," bawled Thomas.
"He's tellin' ye to come in, Annie," said Jean, as if she had been
interpreting his words.
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