"Ay is't. But that was ower muckle a flooer to tak' to the kirk wi' ye.
Ye wad gar the fowk lauch."
"What's the richt flooer to tak' to the kirk, Annie?"
"Ow! sober floories that smell o' the yird (earth), like."
"Ay! ay! Sic like's what?" asked Cupples, for he had found in Annie a poetic nature that delighted him.
"Ow! sic like's thyme and southren-wood, and maybe a bittie o' mignonette."
"Ay! ay! And sae the cowmon custom abuses you, young, bonnie lammies o' the flock. Wadna ye tak' the rose o' Sharon itsel', nor the fire-reid lilies that made the text for the Saviour's sermon? Ow! na. Ye maun be sober, wi' flooers bonnie eneuch, but smellin' o' the kirkyard raither nor the blue lift, which same's the sapphire throne o' Him that sat thereon."
"Weel, but allooin' that, ye sudna gar fowk lauch, wi' a bonnie flooer, but ridickleous for the size o' 't, 'cep' ye gie 't room. A kirk's ower little for't."
"Ye're richt there, my dawtie. And I haena been to the kirk ava'. I hae been to the hills."
"And what got ye there?"
"I got this upo' the road hame."