“Oh! if it’s business—” said Bell, and rose to go; but The Macintosh put a hand on her sleeve and stayed her.
“Ye needna fash to leave, Miss Dyce,” said she. “A’thing’s settled. It seems that Johnny Cleghorn canna ca’ a rig o’ Kaims his ain when he mairries me, and that was a’ I cam’ to see about. Oh, it’s a mischancy thing a mairrage, Miss Dyce; maist folk gang intill’t heels-ower-hurdies, but I’m in an awfu’ swither, and havena a mither to guide me.”
“Keep me!” said Miss Bell, out of all patience at such maidenly apprehensions, “ye’re surely auld enough to ken your ain mind. I hope the guidman’s worthy.”
“He’s no’ that ill—as men-folk gang,” said The Macintosh resignedly. “He’s as fat’s creish, and has a craighlin’ cough, the body, and he’s faur frae bonny, and he hasna a bawbee o’ his ain, and sirs! what a reputation! But a man’s a man, Miss Dyce, and time’s aye fleein’.”
At such a list of disabilities in a husband the Dyces lost all sense of the proprieties and broke into laughter, in which the lady joined them, shaking in her arm-chair. Bell was the first to recover with a guilty sense that this was very bad for Daniel’s business. She straightened her face and was about to make apologies, when Footles bounded in at the open door, to throw himself at the feet of The Macintosh and wave a joyous tail. But he was not content there. In spite of her resistance, he must be in her lap, and then, for the first time, Bell and Ailie noticed a familiar cadence in the stranger’s laugh.
Dan rose and clapped her on the back. “Well done, Bud!” said he. “Ye had us a’; but Footles wasna to be swindled wi’ an auld wife’s goon,” and he gently drew the spectacles from the laughing eyes of his naughty niece!
“Oh, you rogue!” cried Auntie Ailie.
“You wretch!” cried Auntie Bell. “I might have known your cantrips. Where in the world did you get these clothes?”
Bud sailed across the room like a cutter yacht and put her arms about her neck. “Didn’t you know me?” she asked.
“How could I know you, dressed up like that? And your teeth—you imp! they’re blackened; and your neck—you jad! it’s painted; and—oh, lassie, lassie! Awa’! awa’! the deil’s ower grit wi’ ye!”