"Stop, Peter," he said at last; "I don't need you ainy more."
Peter rose stiffly from his knees and shook the mould with a pitiful gesture from his hands. His mouth was fallen slack, and showed a few yellow tusks.
"Eh?" he asked vaguely. The thought that he must leave the Gourlays could not penetrate his mind.
"I don't need you ainy more," said Gourlay again, and met his eye steadily.
"I'm gey auld," said Peter, still shaking his hands with that pitiful gesture, "but I only need a bite and a sup. Man, I'm willin' to tak onything."
"It's no that," said Gourlay sourly—"it's no that. But I'm giving up the business."
Peter said nothing, but gazed away down the garden, his sunken mouth forgetting to munch its straw, which dangled by his chin. "I'm an auld servant," he said at last, "and, mind ye," he flashed in pride, "I'm a true ane."
"Oh, you're a' that," Gourlay grunted; "you have been a good servant."
"It'll be the poorhouse, it's like," mused Peter. "Man, have ye noathing for us to do?" he asked pleadingly.