"Ay, ay!" said he to himself, after his son had gone, "a right likely lad, and a credit to his fayther;" and he bent again to the shoe he was working at, though he could scarcely see it for the tears that started in his eyes.
The satisfied smile had not worn off his face when the figure of a stout woman appeared at the door. The shoemaker took off his spectacles, and wiped them, and then turned to the new-comer.
"A bra' day till ye, Mistress Knicht. An' hoo'll ye be keepin'?"
"Oh! brawly, Maister Rutherford. It's the sheen I've come aboot for my guidman; the auld anes are sare crackit."
"Aweel, mistress, the new anes'll be deen the morn. Set yersel' doon;" and, complying with this invitation, she sat down. "An' hoo's yere Sandie gettin' on at the schule, Mistress Knicht?"
"'Deed, noo ye speak on't, he's a sare loon; he'll niver look at's lessons."
"He winna be ha'in' ony o' the prizes, I'm thinkin' at that gate."
"Na, na; he'll niver bother his heed aboot them. But he's sayin' yer Tam'll ha'e the coontin' prize."
"Ye dinna say sae! Weel, that is news." And he looked up with ill-concealed pride. "The lad was talkin' o't himsel'; but 'deed I niver thocht on't. But there's nae sayin'."
"Aweel, guid-day to ye; and I'll look in the morn for the sheen."