“Aweel! How do you do? that's Ennglish! I daur say.”
“Jolly!” cried he, with his mouth full. Christie was now folding up and neatly arranging his clothes.
“Will you ever, ever be a painter?”
“I am a painter! I could paint the Devil pea-green!”
“Dinna speak o' yon lad, Chairles, it's no canny.”
“No! I am going to paint an angel; the prettiest, cleverest girl in Scotland, 'The Snowdrop of the North.'”
And he dashed into his bedroom to find a canvas.
“Hech!” reflected Christie. “Thir Ennglish hae flattering tongues, as sure as Dethe; 'The Snawdrap o' the Norrth!'”