"It's scarce worth onything," replied the honest woman.
"It's seldom I sell whinstanes covered wi' green moss. Ye may hae't a'thegither for a penny."
"That's owre muckle, guid woman," said Cubby. "A bawbee, eke a farthin, is the hail value o't. I'll gie nae mair."
"I dinna deal in farthins," replied she.
"Dinna deal in farthins!" ejaculated Cubby with surprise. "Is a farthin no the fourth part o' yer ain price o' a' that bread, sufficient to keep a moderate man for a week?"
"He would be a very moderate man that wad eat it," said John. "I was even dootin if I wad hurt the stamach o' my pigs wi't, though boiled in whey."
"Whey!" ejaculated Cubby again—"do ye gie yer pigs whey? They maun hae a routhy stye. Will ye hae my bode?"
"Ye may tak it for naething," said the mistress. "Hoo is Jeanie?—she was complainin last time I saw her."
"Complainin!" said he, as he with the greatest avidity seized the bread, and stuffed it into his pockets. "Did the lassie complain? What did she complain o'? No surely that she didna get her meat." And he looked fearfully and inquiringly into the face of Mrs Monilaws.
"She looked in an ailing way," said the mistress; "an' I thought she was ill."