But by this time Annie, gentle as she was, had got a little angry.
"The Lord'll tak care o' me frae the dark and the tykes, and the lave o' ye, Mr Bruce," she said.
And bidding Tibbie good-night, she took up her books, and departed, to wade through the dark and the snow, trembling lest some unseen tyke should lay hold of her as she went.
As soon as she was gone, Bruce proceeded to make himself agreeable to Tibbie by retailing all the bits of gossip he could think of. While thus engaged, he kept peering earnestly about the room from door to chimney, turning his head on every side, and surveying as he turned it. Even Tibbie perceived, from the changes in the sound of his voice, that he was thus occupied.
"Sae your auld landlord's deid, Tibbie!" he said at last.
"Ay, honest man! He had aye a kin' word for a poor body."
"Ay, ay, nae doobt. But what wad ye say gin I tell't ye that I had boucht the bit hoosie, and was yer new landlord, Tibbie?"
"I wad say that the door-sill wants men'in', to haud the snaw oot; an' the bit hoosie's sair in want o' new thack. The verra cupples'll be rottit awa' or lang."
"Weel that's verra rizzonable, nae doobt, gin a' be as ye say."
"Be as I say, Robert Bruce?"