“Grizzie,” said the laird, “hae ye a drappy o’ soor milk? I’m some dry.”
“Ay, that hae I, sir!” answered Grizzie with alacrity, and rising went into the darker region behind the kitchen, whence presently she emerged with a white basin full of rich milk—half cream, it was indeed. Without explanation or apology she handed it to her master, who received and drank it off.
“Hoots, woman!” he said, “ye wad hae me a shargar (a skin-and-bone calf)! That’s no soor milk!”
“I’m vexed it’s no to yer taste, laird!” returned Grizzie coolly, “but I hae nane better.”
“Ye tellt me ye had soor milk,” said the laird—without a particle of offence, rather in the tone of apology for having by mistake made away with something too good for him.
“Weel, laird,” replied Grizzie, “it’s naething but the guidman’s milk; an’ gien ye dinna ken what’s guid for ye at your time o’ life, it’s weel there sud be anither ’at does. What has a man o’ your ’ears to du drinkin’ soor milk—eneuch to turn a’ soor thegither i’ the inside o’ ye! It’s true I win’ ye weel a sma’ bairn i’ my leddy’s airms—
“Ye may weel du that!” interrupted her mistress.
“I wasna weel intil my teens, though, my leddy!” returned Grizzie. “An’ I’m sure,” she added, in revenge for the insinuation as to her age, “it wad ill become ony wuman to grudge a man o’ the laird’s stan’in a drap o’ the best milk in ’s ain cellar!”
“Who spoke of refusing it to him?” said his mother.
“Ye spak yersel’ sic an’ siclike,” answered Grizzie.