“It’s yer ain dog, my lord,” said the bailiff, whatever consolation there might be in the assurance, as he took him by the collar.
“Am I to be worriet ’cause the dog’s my ain? Haud him the sickerer. He s’ be ayont mischeef the morn!”
“He’s the true dog ’at sides wi’ the richt; he’ll be in bliss afore his maister,” said Grizzie, as she descended from the gate, and stood on her own side of the fence.
But the laird was welcoming his lordship with the heartiness of one receiving an unexpected favour in the visit.
“Weel loupen, my lord!” he said. “Come in an’ rist yersel’ a bit, an’ I s’ tak ye back on to yer ain property an easier gait nor ower a dry-stane-dyke.”
“Gien it be my property,” returned his lordship, “I wad be obleeged to ye, laird, to haud yer fowk aff o’ ’t!”
“Grizzie, wuman,” said the laird, turning to her, “ye dinna surely want to bring me to disgrace! The lan’ ’s his lordship’s—bought and paid for, an’ I hae no more richt ower ’t nor Jeames Gracie’s colley here, puir beast!”
“Ye may be richt aboot the lan’, laird, the mair’s the pity!” answered Grizzie; “but the futpath, beggin’ the pardon o’ baith lairdship and lordship, belangs to me as muckle as to aither o’ ye. Here I stan’, alane for mysel’! That ro’d ’s my neebor, an’ I’m bun’ to see til ’t, for it wad be a sair vex to mony a puir body like mysel’ to louse the richt til ’t.”
“You’ll have to prove what you say, woman,” said his lordship.
“Surely, Grizzie,” expostulated the laird, “his lordship maun un’erstan’ affairs o’ this natur’, as well ’s you or me!”