Salted with Fire

By George MacDonald
“Whaur are ye aff til this bonny mornin’, Maggie, my doo?” said the soutar, looking up from his work, and addressing his daughter as she stood in the doorway with her shoes in her hand.
“Jist ower to Stanecross, wi’ yer leave, father, to speir the mistress for a goupin or twa o’ chaff: yer bed aneth ye’s grown unco hungry-like.”
“Hoot, the bed’s weel eneuch, lassie!”
“Na, it’s onything but weel eneuch! It’s my pairt to luik efter my ain father, and see there be nae k-nots aither in his bed or his parritch.”
“Ye’re jist yer mither owre again, my lass!—Weel, I winna miss ye that sair, for the minister ’ill be in this mornin’.”
“Hoo ken ye that, father?”
“We didna gree vera weel last nicht.”
“I canna bide the minister—argle-barglin body!”
“Toots, bairn! I dinna like to hear ye speyk sae scornfulike o’ the gude man that has the care o’ oor sowls!”
“It wad be mair to the purpose ye had the care o’ his!”
“Sae I hae: hasna ilkabody the care o’ ilk ither’s?”