“Na, na, I ken Miss Charlotte ower weel to forget her, though she has grown a deal sin’ I saw her afore. This was a lassie wi’ black hair, and e’en like the new wood the minister has his dinner-table, wi’ the fine name—what ca’ ye that, now?”
“Mahogany?” said I.
“Ay, it has some sic fremit soun’,” said old Elspie, rather scornfully. “I ken it was no sae far frae muggins (mugwort). Mrs Sophy, my dear, ha’e ye e’er suppit muggins in May? ’Tis the finest thing going for keeping a lassie in gude health, and it suld be drinkit in the spring. Atweel, what’s her name wi’ the copper-colourit e’en?”
“Cecilia Osborne,” said I. “What did you think of her, Elspie?”
The iron went up and down the Vicar’s shirt-front, and I saw a curious gathering together of old Elspie’s lips—still she did not speak. At last Sophy said,—
“Couldn’t you make up your mind about her, Elspie?”
“I had nae mickle fash about that, Mrs Sophy,” said Elspeth, setting down her iron on the stand with something like a bang. “And gin I can see through a millstane a wee bittie, she’ll gi’e ye the chance to make up yourn afore lang.”
“Nay, mine’s made up long since,” answered Sophy. “I shall see the back of her with a deal more pleasure than I did her face a month ago. Won’t you, Cary?”
“I don’t like her the least bit,” said I.
“Ye’ll be wiser lassies, young leddies, gin ye’re no ower ready to say it,” said Elspie, coolly. “It was no ane o’ your white days when she came to Brocklebank Fells. Ay, weel, weel! The Lord’s ower a’.”