The laird went into one of the compartments, and searching about
a little amongst the multitude within his reach, took down a plump
one, then cleared away the blazing wood from the top of one of the
fires, and laid his choice upon the glowing embers beneath.
"What are ye duin' there, laird?" cried Phemy from without, whose
nostrils the resulting odour had quickly reached. "The fish is no
yours."
"Ye dinna think I wad tak it wantin' leave, Phemy!" returned the
laird. "Mony a supper hae I made this w'y, an' mony anither I houp
to mak. It'll no be this sizzon though, for this lot's the last o'
them. They're fine aitin', but I'm some feart they winna keep."
"Wha gae ye leave, sir?" persisted Phemy showing herself the
indivertible guardian of his morals as well as of his freedom.
"Ow, Mr Runcie himsel', of coorse!" answered the laird. "Wull I
pit ane on to you?"
"Did ye speir leave for me tu?" asked the righteous maiden.
"Ow, na; but I'll tell him the neist time I see him."
"I 'm nae for ony," said Phemy.
The fish wanted little cooking. The laird turned it, and after
another half minute of the fire, took it up by the tail, sat down
on a stone beside the door, spread a piece of paper on his knees,
laid the fish upon it, pulled a lump of bread from his pocket, and
proceeded to make his supper. Ere he began, however, he gazed all
around with a look which Phemy interpreted as a renewed search for
the Father of lights, whom he would fain thank for his gifts.
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