‘I hope,’ replied the Leddy of Grippy, ‘that nothing’s the matter wi’ Charlie, for he promised to be out on Sabbath to his dinner, and never came.’
In saying these words, she went hastily to the door to meet her mother, the appearance of whose countenance at the moment was not calculated to allay her maternal fears. Indeed, the old lady scarcely spoke to her daughter, but walking straight into the dining-room where Grippy himself was sitting, took a seat on a chair, and then threw off her cloak on the back of it, before she uttered a word.
‘What’s wrang, grannie?’ said Claud, rising from his seat at the window, and coming towards her.—‘What’s wrang, ye seem fashed?’
‘In truth, Mr. Walkinshaw, I hae cause,’ was the reply—‘poor Charlie!’—
‘What’s happen’d to him?’ exclaimed his mother.
‘Has he met wi’ ony misfortunate accident?’ inquired the father.
‘I hope it’s no a misfortune,’ said the old lady, somewhat recovering her self-possession. ‘At the same time, it’s what I jealouse, Grippy, ye’ll no be vera content to hear.’
‘What is’t?’ cried the father sharply, a little tantalized.
‘Has he broken his leg?’ said the mother.
‘Haud that clavering tongue o’ thine, Girzy,’ exclaimed the Laird peevishly; ‘wilt t’ou ne’er devaul’ wi’ sca’ding thy lips in other folks’ kail?’