“Ay can he—fine that! Ye dinna ken oor yoong laird. He’s worth twa ordinar’ men. An’ gien ye dinna think me fit to gather til’ ’im, I s’ lat ye see ye’re mistaen, Mr. Crawford.”
And Aggie went on gathering faster and faster.
“Hoots!” said the bailiff, going up to her, and laying his hand on her shoulder, “I ken weel ye hae the spunk to work till ye drap. But there’s na occasion the noo. Sit ye doon an’ tak yer breath a meenute—here i’ the shaidow o’ this stook. Whan Glenwarlock’s at the tither en’, we’ll set tu thegither an’ be up wi’ him afore he’s had time to put a fresh edge on ’s scythe. Come, Aggie! I hae lang been thinkin’ lang to hae a word wi’ ye. Ye left me or I kent whaur I was the ither nicht.”
“My time’s no my ain,” answered Aggie.
“Whause is ’t than?”
“While’s it’s the laird’s, an’ while’s it’s my father’s, an’ noo it’s his lordship’s.”
“It’s yer ain sae lang ’s I’m at the heid o’ ’s lordship’s affairs.”
“Na; that canna be. He’s boucht my time, an’ he’ll pey me for ’t, an’ he s’ hae his ain.”
“Ye needna consider ’im mair nor rizzon: he’s been nae freen’ to you or yours.”
“What’s that to the p’int?”