Nan laughed. “I've heard that, too,” she said. “But it was another Scotland.” Then: “So your name is Llewellen?”
“Marg'ret Llewellen.”
“I've heard your grandfather is sick,” said Nan, remembering Tom's report of the health of the community when he had met her and her uncle at Hobart Forks.
“Yes. He's got the tic-del-rew,” declared Margaret, rather unfeelingly. “Aunt Matildy says he's allus creakin' round like a rusty gate-hinge.”
“Why! That doesn't sound very nice,” objected Nan. “Don't you love your grandfather?”
“Not much,” said this perfectly frank young savage. “He's so awfully wizzled.”
“'Wizzled'?” repeated Nan, puzzled.
“Yes. His face is all wizzled up like a dried apple.”
“But you love your aunt Matilda?” gasped Nan.
“Well, she's wizzled some,” confessed Margaret. Then she said: “I don't like faces like hern and Marm Sherwood's. I like your face. It's smooth.”