“Eh, but, Rose, puir Wully an’ me are no used tae sic awfu’——”
“Enough, sir!”
“But, O lassie, ye’re fair washin’ me oot o’ hoose an’ hame——”
“Then begone, sir, and leave us to finish.”
“But Guid save us a’, d’ye no——”
“Sir Hector,” cried my lady, with a flourish of her mop, “go!”
Sir Hector went. Being in his small parlour, he glanced yearningly upon the unwashed crockery littering the table, from this to the dusty riding-boots upon the mantel-shelf and, sweeping a heterogeneous collection of small oddments from the elbow-chair to the floor, sat down with his feet among the long-dead ashes that cumbered the hearth, sighing for that spirit of homely comfort that was, even then, being washed and swept out of his ken.
And thus Sir John found him, a desolate soul, huddled disconsolately over a cheerless hearth, his peruke over one mournful eye, the very picture of woe.
“Hark till her, John!” quoth he dolefully. “O man, ’tis fair heartrendin’! Hark till yon brushin’ an’ scrubbin’!”