"There's Meg Davidson passing the window e'en noo," said the woman.
"Send her in," said the writer to the change-house keeper.
The woman going under this name was immediately introduced by the man, with a kind of mock formality; for he could not get quit of the impression that his old customer had really succeeded to the five hundred pounds—a sum, in his estimation, sufficiently large to insure respect.
"Maggy," said the writer, "tak this chair, and here's a dram. What think ye?"
"I dinna ken."
"Ye're to get the twa white mice and the cage for naething, and this dram to boot."
Meg's face cleared up like a June sun come out in a burst.
"Na," she said; "ye're joking."
"But it's upon a condition," rejoined he.
"Weel, what is't—that I'm to feed them weel, and keep them clean?"