"What for no, Watty, I wad like to ken," growled Miss Horn from
the vaulted depths of her bonnet.
"The like was never hard tell o'!" returned Watty, with the dismay
of an orthodox undertaker, righteously jealous of all innovation.
"It'll be to tell o' hencefurth," rejoined Miss Horn, who in her
risen anger spoke aloud, caring nothing who heard her. "Daur ye
preshume, Watty Witherspaill," she went on, "for no rizzon but that
I ga'e you the job, an' unnertook to pay ye for't--an' that far
abune its market value,--daur ye preshume, I say, to dictate to
me what I'm to du an' what I'm no to du anent the maitter in han'?
Think ye I hae been a mither to the puir yoong thing for sae mony
a year to lat her gang awa' her lane at the last wi' the likes o'
you for company!"
"Hoot, mem! there's the minister at yer elbuck."
"I tell ye, ye're but a wheen rouch men fowk! There's no a wuman
amon' ye to haud things dacent, 'cep I gang mysel'. I'm no beggin'
the minister's pardon ather. I'll gang. I maun see my puir Grizel
till her last bed."
"I dread it may be too much for your feelings, Miss Horn," said
the minister, who being an ambitious young man of lowly origin, and
very shy of the ridiculous, did not in the least wish her company.
"Feelin's!" exclaimed Miss Horn, in a tone of indignant repudiation;
"I'm gauin' to du what's richt. I s' gang, and gien ye dinna like
my company, Mr Cairns, ye can gang hame, an' I s' gang withoot ye.
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