“Ay, fine that,” replied Donal. “Ye couldna weel be better fittit.”
“God grant it!” she said. “But we wad fit better yet gien I had but a wheen mair brains.”
“The Lord kenned what brains ye had whan he broucht ye thegither,” said Donal.
“Ye never uttert a truer word,” replied the cobbler. “Gien the Lord be content wi’ the brains he’s gien ye, an’ I be content wi’ the brains ye gie me, what richt hae ye to be discontentit wi’ the brains ye hae, Doory?—answer me that. But I s’ come to the table.—Wud ye alloo me to speir efter yer name, sir?”
“My name’s Donal Grant,” replied Donal.
“I thank ye, sir, an’ I’ll haud it in respec’,” returned the cobbler. “Maister Grant, wull ye ask a blessin’?”
“I wad raither j’in i’ your askin’,” replied Donal.
The cobbler said a little prayer, and then they began to eat—first of oat-cakes, baked by the old woman, then of loaf-breid, as they called it.
“I’m sorry I hae nae jeally or jam to set afore ye, sir,” said Doory, “we’re but semple fowk, ye see—content to haud oor earthly taibernacles in a haibitable condition till we hae notice to quit.”
“It’s a fine thing to ken,” said the cobbler, with a queer look, “’at whan ye lea’ ’t, yer hoose fa’s doon, an’ ye haena to think o’ ony damages to pey—forby ’at gien it laistit ony time efter ye was oot o’ ’t, there micht be a wheen deevils takin’ up their abode intil ’t.”