Ch. I tell you I don’t know you. Go away. I’m not at all well. I’m very ill, and it’s infectious.
Ang. We fear no illness, sir. This is Mistress Macfarlane, the gude auld mither, who’ll cook the brose and boil the parritch, and sit wi’ ye, and nurse ye through your illness till the sad day ye dee! (Wiping his eye.)
[Cheviot pokes a hole with his finger through newspaper, and reconnoitres unobserved.
Mrs. Mac. And this is Meg, my ain lass Meg!
Ch. (aside). Attractive girl, very. I remember her perfectly.
Mrs. Mac. And this is Angus Macalister, who’s going to marry her, and who’ll be mair than a son to me!
Ang. Oh, mither, mither, dinna say it, for ye bring the tear drop to my ee; an’ it’s no canny for a strong man to be blithering and soughing like a poor weak lassie! (Wiping his eye.)
[Angus and Mrs. Macfarlane sit. Maggie advances to hole in newspaper and peeps through.
Mag. Oh, mither, mither! (Staggers back into Angus’s arms.)
Mrs. Mac. What is it, Meg?