“Hoot, Anerew!” interposed his wife, “there’s naething like that i’ scriptur!”
“Hoot, Doory!” returned Andrew, “what ken ye aboot what’s no i’ scriptur? Ye ken a heap, I alloo, aboot what’s in scriptur, but ye ken little aboot what’s no intil ’t!”
“Weel, isna ’t best to ken what’s intil ’t?”
“’Ayont a doobt.”
“Weel!” she returned in playful triumph.
Donal saw that he had got hold of a pair of originals: it was a joy to his heart: he was himself an original—one, namely, that lived close to the simplicities of existence!
Andrew Comin, before offering him house-room, would never have asked anyone what he was; but he would have thought it an equal lapse in breeding not to show interest in the history as well as the person of a guest. After a little more talk, so far from commonplace that the common would have found it mirth-provoking, the cobbler said:
“An’ what office may ye haud yersel’, sir, i’ the ministry o’ the temple?”
“I think I un’erstan’ ye,” replied Donal; “my mother says curious things like you.”
“Curious things is whiles no that curious,” remarked Andrew.