"Verra weel, verra weel. And how gas it wi' a' the bairns?"
"Shure, they're all av thim doin' foin."
"I'm gey glad to hear it. This saft weather is hard on folk. There's muckle sickness aboot the kintra."
"Hiven be praised it has not lighted here! But sit down, docther, an' make yersilf at home. Will ye be afther havin' a cup o' tay?"
"Hoot, woman! I would na hae you fash yoursel', but a wee drap tea winna coom amiss."
"Whist! It's no thruble at all."
You may not think this a very dizzying excursion into frivolity; but I assure you, for one of Sandy's dignity, it's positively riotous. The man has been in a heavenly temper ever since I came back; not a single cross word. I am beginning to think I may reform him as well as Punch.
This letter must be about long enough even for you. I've been writing it bit by bit for three days, whenever I happened to pass my desk.
Yours as ever,
SALLIE.