Grace Drever was an active woman, somewhat bent with age, but with no signs of decaying faculties, save in the case of her extreme deafness. Her hair was still black, and her eyesight was quick. Her memory for local events was as good as an almanac to the people of Stromness, and there was something strangely uncanny about her nature that was itself almost an excuse to those who hinted that she had dealings with the underworld. She was one of the older style of inhabitants, who retained the primitive habits and customs of the island, whose spoken language had in it a mixture of the Norse, which distinguished it from the simpler Scotch dialect familiarly used by us of the younger generation, and yet more from the purer English into which we were drilled at school.
Andrew Drever generally spoke good English in the presence of strangers, though he lapsed into the broad native speech in friendly talk with the fisher folk.
"I hae brought Captain Gordon wi' me to hae a taste o' the trout," he said to his mother as we entered the room, where she bent over the fire.
"Gordon! Gordon! I dinna ken ony Gordon. What's the name o' his ship?"
"He belongs to the Lydia, the barque that cam' in this forenoon."
"Aw, yes, I ken his ship, but I dinna ken the captain. Yes, yes, he'll get a taste o' the troot, I warrant him that."
Then turning to Mr. Gordon, she continued: "Ye were never in Stromness afore, captain? No? Ye maun speak loud--it's terrible dull o' hearing I am."
The captain looked at Grace as she applied a strange, shell-like horn to her right ear, and went closer to him.
"The Lydia has a great many mice on board," said the captain.
"Ay, you'll be takin' it out to America for the black folk, no doubt. It's terrible hot in America, they say. But where got you the ice? Not from Leith?"