“Look again; is there no' a man to keep the laddies awa'?” suggested the Provost, pawky body!
“I declare there is!” cried The Macintosh, taking the hint. “See; there! he's under this tree, a' huddled up in an awfu' passion.”
“I can't make out his head,” said the Provost's lady. “Some men hae nane,” retorted the spae-wife; “but what's to hinder ye imaginin' 't, like me?”
“Oh! if it's imagination,” said the Provost's lady, “I can hear him swearin'. And now, what's my cup?”
“I see here,” said The Macintosh, “a kind o' island far at sea, and a ship sailin' frae't this way, wi' flags to the mast-heid and a man on board.”
“I hope he's well, then,” said the Provost's lady, “for that's our James, and he's coming from Barbadoes; we had a letter just last week. Indeed, you're a perfect wizard!” She had forgotten that her darling James's coming was the talk of the town for ten days back.
Colin Cleland, rubicund, good-natured, with his shyness gone, next proffered his palm to read. His hand lay like a plaice, inelegant and large, in hers, whose fresh young beauty might have roused suspicion in observers less carried away in the general illusion.
“Ah, sir,” said she, with a sigh, “ye hae had your trials!”
“Mony a ane, ma'am,” said the jovial Colin. “I was ance a lawyer, for my sins.”
“That's no' the kind o' trial I mean,” said The Macintosh. “Here's a wheen o' auld tribulations.”