'But your people belonged to Glentuirc?'
'Yes, of old,' answered Minnie, proudly; 'the Mac Omishes of Chaistal Omish.'
'A most euphonious name—are you sure?'
'Do you doubt it?'
'Yes—for so beautiful a face as yours, Minnie never came of the race of Glentuirc.'
'They were braver than they were bonnie, perhaps, Mr. Snaggs,' said Minnie, with reserve.
'But now about your uncle's farm, Minnie—it lies with yourself to keep Gillespie Fatadh in the glen and it lies with you to level his cottage to the earth and drive him into a Lowland workhouse, or to the distant shores of America.'
'With me?' was the breathless query.
'Sit down on this green bank and listen to me. We must be wary, my dear girl, in treating with the denizens of this glen, for they are sinful ones—sloth is sin, and they are slothful,' said Mr. Snaggs, drawing close to her side, and patting one of her pretty hands with his right hand, while it was firmly clutched by his left; 'we must be wary—religion is the life of the world, and wickedness is always its own punishment.'
'Sir?' was the perplexed interjection of Minnie.