"Yes, mem."
"What does your father do?"
Baubie Wishart glanced down again in thought for an instant, then raised her eyes for the first time directly to her questioner's face: "He used to be a Christy man, but he canna be that any longer, sae he goes wi' boords."
"Why cannot he be a Christy man any longer?"
Down came the foot once more, and this time took up its position permanently beside the other: "Because mother drinks awfu', an' pawned the banjo for drink." This family history was related in the most matter-of-fact, natural way.
"And does your father drink too?" asked Miss Mackenzie after a short pause.
Baubie Wishart's eyes wandered all round the room, and with one toe she swept up a little mass of dust before she answered in a voice every tone of which spoke unwilling truthfulness, "Just whiles—Saturday nichts."
"Is he kind to you?"
"Ay," looking up quickly, "excep' just whiles when he's fou—Saturday nichts, ye ken—and then he beats me; but he's rale kind when he's sober."
"Were you ever at school?"