'I'm no auld eneuch to min' upo' that, mem,' returned Betty revengefully, but in an undertone, as if she did not intend her mistress to hear. And although she heard well enough, her mistress adopted the subterfuge. 'But I'll sweir the crater I saw was in cwytes (petticoats).'
'Sweir not at all, Betty. Ye hae made a mistak ony gait.'
'Wha says that, mem?'
'Robert.'
'Aweel, gin he be tellin' the trowth—'
'Daur ye mint (insinuate) to me that a son o' mine wad tell onything but the trowth?'
'Na, na, mem. But gin that wasna a quean, ye canna deny but she luikit unco like ane, and no a blate (bashful) ane eyther.'
'Gin he was a loon, he wadna luik like a blate lass, ony gait, Betty. And there ye're wrang.'
'Weel, weel, mem, hae 't yer ain gait,' muttered Betty.
'I wull hae 't my ain gait,' retorted her mistress, 'because it's the richt gait, Betty. An' noo ye maun jist gang up the stair, an' get the place cleant oot an' put in order.'