"She will be nineteen come the time," replied David.
"It's a pity she's sae young," rejoined the Laird, with a great struggle, and making a noise with his cane, as if he had repented of his words, and wished to drown them before they reached the ears of David.
"I dinna think sae, beggin yer Honour's pardon," replied David. "We need her assistance, in this trial; an' I'm just thinkin o' some way she micht use her hands—an she's willing aneugh, puir cratur—for our assistance."
"Are ye no pleased wi' my assistance?" said the Laird, displeased at something in David's reply.
"Yer Honour has saved our lives," replied David, feelingly, "an' it wad only be because we are ashamed o yer guidness that we wad wish our dochter to tak a part o' that burden aff ane wha is under nae obligation to serve us."
"If I hae been yer friend, ye hae been mine," said the Laird. "I hae got guid advices frae ye; an', even noo, I hae something to ask ye concernin mysel, that nae ither man i' the haugh could sae weel answer."
"What is that, yer Honour?" said David.
"What do ye think, David Mearns, I should do," said the Laird, moving about in the chair in evident perplexity, "if my dochter Lucy were to tak a husband an' leave Burnbank? I carena aboot fa'in into the hands o' Jenny Mucklewham, wha, for this some time past, has neither cleaned my buckles nor brushed my coat as I wad wish. She says I'm mair fashious; but that's a mere excuse."
"I hae seen aulder men marry again," said David, thinking he would please the Laird, by giving him such an answer as he was clearly fishing for.
"Aulder men, David, man!" replied the Laird, looking down at his person, and adjusting his wig. "Did I ask ye onything aboot my age? I wanted merely your advice, what I should do in certain circumstances, an' ye gie me a comparison for an answer.—Do ye think I should marry?"