'I said there was nae odds i' me, Betty,' persisted Robert, laughing.
'I kenna what may be in ye,' retorted Betty; 'but there's an unco' odds upo' ye.'
'Haud yer tongue, Betty,' said her mistress. 'Ye oucht to ken better nor stan' jawin' wi' young men. Fess mair o' the creamy cakes.'
'Maybe Robert wad like a drappy o' parritch.'
'Onything, Betty,' said Robert. 'I'm at deith's door wi' hunger.'
'Rin, Betty, for the cakes. An' fess a loaf o' white breid; we canna bide for the parritch.'
Robert fell to his breakfast, and while he ate—somewhat ravenously—he told his grandmother the adventures of the night, and introduced the question whether he might not ask Ericson to stay a few days with him.
'Ony frien' o' yours, laddie,' she replied, qualifying her words only with the addition—'gin he be a frien'.—Whaur is he noo?'
'He's up at Miss Naper's.'
'Hoots! What for didna ye fess him in wi' ye?—Betty!'