"I dinna think muckle o' that, sir," said Phemy.
"It micht be the mark o' the sole o' his fut, though," returned
the laird. "He micht hae fist setten 't doon, an' the watter hae
lowed (flamed) up aboot it, an' the low no be willin' to gang oot!
Luik sharp, Phemy; there may come anither at the neist stride--
anither fut mark. Luik ye that gait an' I'll luik this.--What for
willna he come oot? The lift maun be fu' o' 'im, an' I 'm hungert
for a sicht o' 'im. Gien ye see ony thing, Phemy, cry oot."
"What will I cry?" asked Phemy.
"Cry 'Father o' lichts!'" answered the laird.
"Will he hear to that--div ye think, sir?"
"Wha kens! He micht jist turn his heid; an' ae luik wad sair me
for a hunner year."
"I s' cry, gien I see onything," said Phemy.
As they sat watching, by degrees the laird's thought swerved a
little. His gaze had fixed on the northern horizon, where, as if
on the outer threshold of some mighty door, long low clouds, with
varied suggestion of recumbent animal forms, had stretched themselves,
like creatures of the chase, watching for their lord to issue.
"Maybe he's no oot o' the hoose yet," he said. "Surely it canna be
but he comes oot ilka nicht! He wad never hae made sic a sicht o'
bonny things to lat them lie wi'oot onybody to gaither them! An'
there's nae ill fowk the furth at this time o' nicht, ta mak an
oogly din, or disturb him wi' the sicht o' them. He maun come oot
i' the quaiet o' the nicht, or else what's 't a' for?--Ay! he
keeps the nicht till himsel', an' lea's the day to hiz (us).
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