“My dear, I am not writing—”
“You’re writing to London for compasses, are you not?”
“No,” said Mr Sudberry with a smile. “I believe they understand how to manufacture the mariner’s compass in Scotland—I am writing to my Edinburgh agent for them.”
“Oh! ah well, it did not occur to me. Now you mention it, I think I have heard that the Scotch have sort of scientific tendencies.”
“Yes, they are ‘feelosophically’ inclined, as our friend McAllister would say. But what did you want, my love?”
“I want a hobby-horse to be sent to us for Jacky; but it will be of no use writing to Edinburgh for one. I suppose they do not use such things in a country where there are so few real horses, and so few roads fit for a horse to walk on.”
Mr Sudberry made no reply, not wishing to incur the expense of such a useless piece of furniture, and his wife continued her needlework with a sigh. From the bottom of her large heart she pitied the Scottish nation, and wondered whether there was the remotest hope of the place ever being properly colonised by the English, and the condition of the aborigines ameliorated.
“Mamma, I’m going with Flora Macdonald to visit her poor people,” said Lucy, entering at the moment with a flushed face,—for Lucy was addicted to running when in a hurry,—and with a coquettish little round straw hat.
“Very well, my love, but do take that good-natured man to guide you—Mr What’s-his-name, I’ve such a memory! Ah! McCannister; do take him with you, dear.”
“There is no need, mamma. Nearly all the cottages lie along the road-side, and Flora is quite at home here, you know.”