'Oho!' said John, gaily; then solemnly, 'What kin' o' a ring,
Macgreegor?'
'An engagement yin,' the ruddy youth replied.
Mr. Robinson laughed, but not very heartily. 'Sae lang as it's no a waddin' ring. . . . Weel, weel, this is the day for news.' He touched his son's arm. 'It'll be the young lass in the stationery shop—her that ye whiles see at yer Uncle Purdie's hoose—eh?'
'Hoo did ye ken?'
'Oh, jist guessed. It's her?'
'Maybe. . . . She hasna ta'en the ring yet.'
'But ye think she will, or ye wudna ha'e tell't me. Weel, I'm sure I wish ye luck, Macgreegor. She's a bonny bit lass, rael clever, I wud say, an'—an' gey stylish.'
'She's no that stylish—onyway, no stylish like Aunt Purdie.'
'Ah, but ye maunna cry doon yer Aunt Purdie——'
'I didna mean that. But ye ken what I mean, fayther.'