“You should have seen her at the Melliah; it was a trate.”
“God bless me!”
“Sun-bonnet and pink frock and tight red stockings, and straight as a standard rase.”
“Hould your tongue, woman,” shouted Pete. “I'll see herself first, and I'm dying to do it.”
Cæsar came back with the gorse; Nancy fed the fire and Grannie stirred the oatmeal and water. And while the cakes were baking, Pete tramped the kitchen and examined everything and recognised old friends with a roar.
“Bless me! the same place still. There's the clock on the shelf, with the scratch on its face and the big finger broke at the joint, and the lath—and the peck—and the whip—you've had it new corded, though——”
“'Sakes, how the boy remembers!” cried Grannie.
“And the white rumpy” (the cat had leapt on to the dresser out of the reach of Pete's dog, and from that elevation was eyeing him steadfastly), “and the slowrie—and the kettle—and the poker—my gracious, the very poker——”
“Now, did you ever!” cried Grannie with amazement.
“And—yes—no—it is, though—I'll swear it before the Dempster—that's,” said Pete, picking up a three-legged stool, “that's the very stool she was sitting on herself in the fire-seat in front of the turf closet. Let me sit there now for the sake of ould times gone by.”