She could not follow the thread of the Reverend Doctor MacMichael's discourse.

She could not fix her attention on the wanderings and misdeeds of Israel as recorded in the Book of Exodus.
She must always be getting up to look at the pot on the fire, or to open the back door and study the weather.

For a little she fought against her unrest, and then she gave up the attempt at concentration.
She took the big pot off the fire and allowed it to simmer, and presently she fetched her boots and umbrella, and kilted her petticoats.

"I'll be none the waur o' a breath o' caller air," she decided.
The wind was blowing great guns but there was only the thinnest sprinkle of rain.

Sitting on the hen-house roof and munching a raw turnip was a figure which she recognized as the smallest of the Die-Hards.