“Weel, I declare,” she exclaimed, “if that callant shouldna get his paiks, for gauring me believe that the kail wasna ready: but it was thoughtfu’ o’ him, after a’, to pit them on; and troth,” says she, “they’re uncommon gude.”
“An’ what for no, Jeanie?” asked the miller. “Did ye think that your father had forgotten how to mak a patfu’ o’ kail?”
“Did ye mak them, father?”
“Troth did I; wha else was there to do it?”
“But couldna ye hae cried in William, father? I’m sure it wad hae been better for him to hae been in the house, than puttin’ himsel into sic a terrible heat wi’ delving this warm day.”
“If William’s in a heat,” quoth the miller, “it’s no wi’ delving, for I haena seen him near the house the hale day, an’ I was out twa or three times.”
“Then I’ll lay onything I ken whaur he’s been,” said Jeanie; “and him to hae the impudence to speak to me yon gate—but I’se gie him’t;—an’ yet what right hae I to be angry wi’ him, me that’s forgotten mysel sae muckle?”
“Dinna vex yoursel about that, my bairn,” quoth the miller; “what has happened the day’s enough to put us a’ out o’ sorts; but we’ll a come to oursels belyve. An’ now, Jeanie, gang ye out an’ look if ye can see James coming hame, an’ then we’ll hae our dinner.”
Sae awa she gangs, and when William sees her coming, he pretends to be unco busy working.
“William,” cries she, “ken ye whaur James is gane?”