“Hoots, my woman!” said her husband, “what are ye greitin’ at?”
“Eh, Peter!” she answered, “I canna help it. It’s jist like a deith. He’s gauin’ to lea’ us a’, an’ gang hame till ’s ain, an’ I canna bide ’at he sud grow strange-like to hiz ’at ha’e kenned him sae lang.”
“It’ll be an ill day,” returned Malcolm, “whan I grow strange to ony freen’. I’ll ha’e to gang far down the laich (low) ro’d afore that be poassible. I mayna aye be able to du jist what ye wad like; but lippen ye to me: I s’ be fair to ye. An’ noo I want Blue Peter to gang wi’ me, an’ help me to what I ha’e to du—gien ye ha’e nae objection to lat him.”
“Na, nane ha’e I. I wad gang mysel’ gien I cud be ony use,” answered Mrs Mair; “but women are i’ the gait whiles.”
“Weel, I’ll no even say thank ye; I’ll be awin’ ye that as weel ’s the lave. But gien I dinna du weel, it winna be the fau’t o’ ane or the ither o’ you twa freen’s. Noo, Peter, we maun be aff.”
“No the nicht, surely?” said Mrs Mair, a little taken by surprise.
“The suner the better, lass,” replied her husband. “An’ we cudna ha’e a better win’. Jist rin ye hame, an’ get some vicktooals thegither, an’ come efter hiz to Portlossie.”
“But hoo ’ill ye get the boat to the watter ohn mair han’s? I’ll need to come mysel’ an’ fess Jean.”
“Na, na; let Jean sit. There’s plenty i’ the Seaton to help. We’re gauin’ to tak the markis’s cutter. She’s a heap easier to lainch, an’ she’ll sail a heap fester.”
“But what’ll Maister Crathie say?”