"I'm surprised to see ye carryin' that thing o' the Lord's day, Mr
Cupples. Fowk'll think ill o' ye."
"Weel, ye see, Mr Bruce, it angert me sae to see the ill-faured thing positeevely growin' there upo' the Lord's day, that I pu'd it up 'maist by the reet. To think o' a weyd like that prankin' itsel' oot in its purple and its spots upo' the Sawbath day! It canna ken what it's aboot. I'm only feared I left eneuch o' 't to be up again afore lang."
"I doobt, Mr Cupples, ye haena come unner the pooer o' grace yet."
"A pour o' creysh (grease)! Na, thank ye. I dinna want to come unner a pour o' creysh. It wad blaud me a'thegither. Is that the gait ye baptize i' your conventicle?"
"There's nane sae deif's them 'at winna hear, Mr Cupples," said Bruce.
"I mean�-ye're no convertit yet."
"Na. I'm no convertit. 'Deed no. I wadna like to be convertit. What wad ye convert me till? A swine? Or a sma' peddlin' crater that tak's a bawbee mair for rowin' up the pigtail in a foul paper? Ca' ye that conversion? I'll bide as I am."
"It's waste o' precious time speikin' to you, Mr Cupples," returned
Bruce, moving off with a red face.
"'Deed is't," retorted Cupples; "and I houp ye winna forget the fac'?
It's o' consequens to me."
But he had quite another word on the same subject for Annie Anderson, whom he overtook on her way to Howglen-�she likewise returning from the missionar kirk.
"Isna that a bonnie ring o' deid man's bells, Annie?" said he, holding out the foxglove, and calling it by its name in that part of the country.