The wife turned round upon Mr. Charles with an air of compassion.
“Ye’ll no mind his grumbling, Sir. It’s my man’s way. He has real sensible thoughts, but an ill way of expressing them. A’ that comes from me is really from my man; but the words aye fail him—”
“They don’t seem to fail you,” said Mr. Charles.
“Na, never!” muttered the husband behind backs.
“The Lord be praised!” said the woman; “what would become of the house and the bairns if there was not some person that had sense enough to speak when there was occasion for’t? But as I’m saying, this man in the advertisement—It’s a long way off for him to come, and as we were in the town for our ain concerns, we gave him our word we would ask. It’s maybe about some poaching business; though that’s a queer thing for a young leddy to take in hand.”
“Does not the young lady’s name suggest to you what the business may be?” said Mr. Charles, rousing up to this little conflict of wits, and feeling a sensible pleasure in thus being thrust as it were into the very front of the battle.
The two looked at each other.
“I told you so,” said the woman.
“Then speak out; I’ll no do it,” said the man.
“Well, Sir,” resumed the wife, “I ken just this much, that John Macgregor was ance in the service of a Mr. Heriot, a poor young gentleman that’s dead, I hear? Eh, Sirs, to think how the young and the goodly die, and auld dry sticks aye live on and flourish! There’s a man in our ain parish, sixty if he’s a day, married upon a young lass—”