He knew it was his mother, trained in the way of the Morrisons to
respect the sanctuary of the family lairds when they were paying their
devotions at the shrine of business.
"I'm saying my gude nicht to ye, bairnie, for ye're telling me ye'll no'
be hame till late," she said when he flung open the door.
He copied affectionately her Scotch "braidness" of dialect when they were
alone together. "No, wee mither, not till late."
He stepped out into the corridor and kissed her. She patted his cheek and
walked on.
More of that whimsy into which he had been allowing his troubled emotions
to lead him! He realized it fully! His brow wrinkled, he shook his head,
but he called to her. He went to meet her when she returned.
"It's like it is at the office, these days! I'm Morrison of St. Ronan's on
one side o' the rail; I'm the mayor of Marion on t'other! Here in the
corridor, ye're wee mither!" He put his arm about her and lifted her into
the library. "Coom awa' wi' ye, noo!" he cried. He threw himself into a
big chair and pulled her upon his knee. "Ye're Jeanie Mac Dougal--only a
woman. I need to talk wi' a woman. I canna talk wi' Mac Tavish or sic as
he. He thinks I'm daft.
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