“My sisters and my wife, Adam,” said Harry, with a smile.
“His wife! hear till him! Will ye tell me that the like of this bit callant’s married? Sirs, I never was married mysel.”
The poor old feeble Dragon looked round as he spoke with the air of a hero, and lifting up his shrivelled hands, exhibited himself complacently. But as he did this, his book fell, and stooping to pick it up, he presented it to Harry, with an unmeaning smile.
Poor Dragon! it was a very rare and fine old edition of Shakespeare, which his rough handling had by no means improved. Harry was not sufficiently learned to know that it was curious and valuable, but he saw its great age and antique appearance, and thought it might be better employed than kindling Adam’s fire.
“When you are done with it, keep it for me, Dragon,” said Harry; “I should like to look at it myself.”
The old man began to shake his head, slowly at first, but with a gradually increasing rapidity of motion.
“I’m far from clear that it’s right to give the like o’ this to young folk; it’s only those who by reason of use have their senses exercised to discern both good and evil, the Apostle says; and you are but a babe to be fed on the sincere milk. How mony sisters have ye, Mr. Hairy?”
“Three, Dragon.”
“Three sisters and ae wife! four women intill a house at ance! Come your ways up the muckle stair,” said the old man, hastily, “and see the bonnie rooms we’ve gotten to lodge them a’ in; and plenty of light and plenty of windows, for a’ yon birkie says.”
The young men followed in silence.