“I want nae peyment,” she rejoined, perceiving his drift as little as probably my reader.
“An’ I want nae milk,” returned Donal.
“Weel, ye may pey for ’t gien ye like,” she rejoined.
“But I dinna like,” replied Donal.
“Weel, ye’re a some queer customer!” she remarked.
“I thank ye, but I’m nae customer, ’cep’ for a drink o’ watter,” he persisted, looking in her face with a smile; “an’ watter has aye been grâtis sin’ the days o’ Adam—’cep’ maybe i’ toons i’ the het pairts o’ the warl’.”
The woman turned into the cottage, and came out again presently with a delft basin, holding about a pint, full of milk, yellow and rich.
“There!” she said; “drink an’ be thankfu’.”
“I’ll be thankfu’ ohn drunken,” said Donal. “I thank ye wi’ a’ my heart. But I canna bide to tak for naething what I can pey for, an’ I dinna like to lay oot my siller upo’ a luxury I can weel eneuch du wantin’, for I haena muckle. I wadna be shabby nor yet greedy.”
“Drink, for the love o’ God,” said the woman.