He knocked, but there came no answer.
"She's some dull o' hearin'," said the cobbler, and called her by
his own name for her.
"Doory! Doory!" he said.
"She canna be that deif gien she hears ye!" said Donal; for he spoke
hardly louder than usual.
"Whan God gies you a wife, may she be ane to hear yer lichtest
word!" answered the cobbler.
Sure enough, he had scarcely finished the sentence, when Doory
appeared at the door.
"Did ye cry, guidman?" she said.
"Na, Doory: I canna say I cried; but I spak, an' ye, as is yer
custom, hearkent til my word!--Here's a believin' lad--I'm thinkin'
he maun be a gentleman, but I'm no sure; it's hard for a cobbler to
ken a gentleman 'at comes til him wantin' shune; but he may be a
gentleman for a' that, an' there's nae hurry to ken. He's welcome
to me, gien he be welcome to you. Can ye gie him a nicht's
lodgin'?"
"Weel that! an' wi' a' my hert!" said Doory. "He's welcome to what
we hae."
Turning, she led the way into the house.
CHAPTER VI.
DOORY.
She was a very small, spare woman, in a blue print with little white
spots--straight, not bowed like her husband. Otherwise she seemed
at first exactly like him. But ere the evening was over, Donal saw
there was no featural resemblance between the two faces, and was
puzzled to understand how the two expressions came to be so like: as
they sat it seemed in the silence as if they were the same person
thinking in two shapes and two places.
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