“Who is that?” said little Lilie.
“Oh, if ye please, Miss Lilie,” said Jacky, “it’s a young gentleman that was a lord’s son, and now he’s a lord himsel—and he’s gaun to be married to Mr. Harry’s sister.”
“Eh, Jacky, what gars ye say such a thing?” cried Bessie. “If ye please, Miss Lilie, naebody kens—only he’s been twice at Harrows; but maybe he’s no courting Miss Coulter for a’ that.”
“I should think not,” exclaimed Charlie Ferguson, indignantly. “Ada Coulter married to a lord! Yes, indeed—and they can’t talk of a single thing at Harrows but fat pigs, and prize cattle, and ploughing matches. Why, Lilie, do you mind what Harry gave you when you were at Merkland—a plough! what can ladies do with ploughs?”
“Mrs. Catherine has a great many ploughs, Charlie,” said Lilie, gravely—”and it was very good of Harry; and Mary and me might have played with it all our lane, and we would not have needed you. I dinna like boats—folk can plough at hame—but in boats they go over the sea.”
“And, eh, Jacky!” exclaimed Bessie, curiously, as Charlie followed his capricious liege lady, to efface if he could this unfortunate recollection of Harry Coulter and his gift—”isna young Strathoran awfu’ often at Redheugh?”
“He’s here whiles,” said Jacky, briefly.
“Johnnie Halflin says,” said Bessie, “and it’s a’ through the parish—and folk say Mrs. Catherine’s just waiting for’t, and that it’s to be in the Tower, and Mr. Lumsden is to do it, and Mrs. Lumsden kens a’ about it—”
“About what?”
“Oh, ye just ken better than me for a’ you’ll no say—just that young Strathoran’s coming out of yon muckle reekie Glasgow, hame to his ain house, and then he’s to be married to Miss Anne. Tell us, woman, Jacky—I’ll never tell a mortal body again, as sure as I’m living.”