“Oot Fintry way,” said Erchie, exasperated, “it’s a’ richt to keep up tucked shirt-breists, and crape, and weepers, and mort-cloths, and the like, for there canna be an awfu’ lot o’ gaiety in the place, but we have aye plenty o’ ither things to amuse us in Gleska. There’s the Kelvingrove Museum, and the Wax-works. If ye’re no’ pleased wi’ the wye Macphee was buried, ye needna gie us the chance again wi’ ony o’ yer freen’s.”
The cousin’s wife addressed herself to her husband. “Whit was yon ye were gaun to ask?” she said to him.
He got very red, and shifted uneasily in his chair. “Me!” said he, “I forget.”
“No ye dinna; ye mind fine.”
“Och, it’s a’ richt. Are we no’ haein’ a fine time,” protested the husband.
“No, nor a’ richt, Rubbert Grant.” She turned to the others, “Whit my man was gaun to ask, if he wasna such a sumph, was whether oor kizzen hadna ony money put by him.”
“If ye kent him better, ye wadna need to ask,” said Duffy.
“He was a cheery chap,” said Jinnet.
“But was he no’ in the Shepherds, or the Oddfellows, or the Masons, or onything that wye?”
“No, nor in the Good Templars nor the Rechabites,” said Erchie. “The only thing the puir sowl was ever in was the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults.”