“Are your fingers not tired?” asked Mr Sudberry, wiping his bald forehead, which glistened as if it had been anointed with oil.
“Not yet,” said McAllister quietly.
Not yet! If the worthy Highlander had played straight on all night and half the next day, he would have returned the same answer to the same question.
“You spend a jolly life of it here,” said Mr Sudberry to Mrs McAllister.
“Ay, a pleasant life, no doot; but we’re not always fiddling and dancing.”
“True, but the variety of herding the cattle on these splendid hills is charming.”
“So it is,” assented Mrs McAllister; “we’ve reason to be contented with our lot. Maybe ye would grow tired of it, however, if ye was always here. I’m told that the gentry whiles grow tired of their braw rooms, and take to plowterin’ aboot the hills and burns for change. Sometimes they even dance wi’ the servants in a Highland cottage!”
“Ha! you have me there,” cried Mr Sudberry, laughing.
“Let me sit down, pa, pray do!” cried Lucy. Her father rose quickly, and Lucy dropped into his place quite exhausted.
“Come, father, relieve me!” cried Fred. “I’m done up, and my partner won’t give in.”