The others moved off slowly together.
“Mamma,” said Miss Vere, “I can't understand half Barbara Sinclair says.”
“It is not necessary, my love,” replied mamma; “she is rather eccentric, and I fear she is spoiling Lord Ipsden.”
“Poor Lord Ipsden,” murmured the lovely Vere, “he used to be so nice, and do like everybody else. Mamma, I shall bring some work the next time.”
“Do, my love.”
PICNIC NO. 2.
In a house, two hundred yards from this scene, a merry dance, succeeding a merry song, had ended, and they were in the midst of an interesting story; Christie Johnstone was the narrator. She had found the tale in one of the viscount's books—it had made a great impression on her.
The rest were listening intently. In a room which had lately been all noise, not a sound was now to be heard but the narrator's voice.
“Aweel, lasses, here are the three wee kists set, the lads are to chuse—the ane that chuses reicht is to get Porsha, an' the lave to get the bag, and dee baitchelars—Flucker Johnstone, you that's sae clever—are ye for gowd, or siller, or leed?”
1st Fishwife. “Gowd for me!”