“I won’er,” said Doory at length, “’at yoong Eppy’s no puttin’ in her appearance! I was sure o’ her the nicht: she hasna been near ’s a’ the week!”
The cobbler turned to Donal to explain. He would not talk of things their guest did not understand; that would be like shutting him out after taking him in!
“Yoong Eppy’s a gran’child, sir—the only ane we hae. She’s a weel behavet lass, though ta’en up wi’ the things o’ this warl’ mair nor her grannie an’ me could wuss. She’s in a place no far frae here—no an easy ane, maybe, to gie satisfaction in, but she’s duin’ no that ill.”
“Hoot, Anerew! she’s duin’ jist as weel as ony lassie o’ her years could in justice be expeckit,” interposed the grandmother. “It’s seldom ’at the Lord sets auld heid upo’ yoong shoothers.”
The words were hardly spoken when a light foot was heard coming up the stair.
“—But here she comes to answer for hersel’!” she added cheerily.
The door of the room opened, and a good-looking girl of about eighteen came in.
“Weel, yoong Eppy, hoo’s a’ wi’ ye?” said the old man.
The grandmother’s name was Elspeth, the grand-daughter’s had therefore always the prefix.
“Brawly, thank ye, gran’father,” she answered. “Hoo’s a’ wi’ yersel’?”