“Aye, I dae that—leastways, there’s Wully Tamson sleeps i’ my kitchen on account o’ his wife when he’s fu’—which is frequent.... But, Johnnie”—here Sir Hector paused to stare very hard at his short clay pipe—“I’ve lately had an idea—very lately! I’ve juist the noo come tae a fixed determination.... ’Tis like enough I shall be a lonely man nae longer, y’ ken.”
“’S death, Hector man, you never think of marrying?”
“Marryin’—me? Losh, man, dae I look like it? Dinna be sic a fule! I’m fair amazed at ye! No, John,” continued Sir Hector, his English suddenly precise, “I have, upon due consideration, determined to adopt the girl Rose——”
“Aha!” exclaimed Sir John, with sudden laugh, but meeting Sir Hector’s glare of angered amazement, contrived to regain his gravity. “So you have determined to ... to adopt my Rose child, have you, Hector?”
“I hae that!”
“Have you put the matter to her?”
“I hae so!”
“And what said she?”
“The puir, preety soul fair turned her back an’ weepit, John.”
“Aha!” exclaimed Sir John again. “Hum! Wept, did she, Hector?”