"He is an artist—a vera great one, I should say."
"He paints pictures for a living! He! A Crawford o' Traquare! I'll no believe it, Tallisker."
"There's naught to fret about, laird. You'll ken that some day. Then his wife had money."
"His wife! Sae he is married. That is o' a piece wi' the rest. Wha is she?"
"He married an American—a Boston lady."
Then the laird's passion was no longer controllable, and he said some things the dominie was very angry at.
"Laird," he answered, "Mrs. Colin Crawford is my friend. You'll no daur to speak any way but respectful o' her in my presence. She is as good as any Crawford that ever trod the heather. She came o' the English Hampdens. Whar will ye get better blood than that?"
"No Hampdens that ever lived—"
"Whist! Whist, laird! The Crawfords are like a' ither folk; they have twa legs and twa hands."
"He should hae married a Scots lass, though she had carried a milking-pail."