"If yer Honour has ony wish in that way, I think ye should," said David.
"I never yet did wrang in following your advice, David Mearns," said the Laird. "—She's a fine lassie, Effie."
"Ou, ay," responded David, at a loss what more to say.
"Very fine," again said the Laird, turning his face partially from the window, so as the tail of his eye reached David's face, and waiting for something more.
David could, however, say nothing. The very circumstance of the Laird's wishing him to say something pertinent to the purpose already so broadly hinted at, prevented him from touching so delicate a subject; and, notwithstanding of another application of the tail of the Laird's eye, he was silent.
"Ye hae gien me ae advice, David," said the Laird, in despair of getting anything more out of David without a question: "could ye no tell me wha I should marry, man?" And having achieved this announcement, he rose and walked to the window.
"That's owre delicate a subject for me to gie an advice on, yer Honour," replied David. "The doo lays aside ninety-nine guid straes, an' taks the hundredth, though a crooked ane, for its nest. Ye maun judge for yersel."
"What say ye to yer ain Effie, then?" said the Laird, relieved at last from a dreadful burden.
"If yer Honour likes the lassie, an' she'll tak yer Honour, I can hae nae objections," replied David.
The Laird, who seemed twenty years younger after this declaration, took David by the hand, and shook it till the pain of his dislocated arm almost made him cry.