“Gin your roebuck’s nae better than your last, at weel it’s no worth the sendin’-poor dry fisinless dirt, no worth the chowing; weel a wat I begrudged my teeth on’t.  Your muirfowl was na that ill, but they’re no worth the carryin; they’re dong cheap i’the market enoo, so it’s nae great compliment.  Gin ye had brought me a leg o’ gude mutton, or a cauler sawmont, there would hae been some sense in’t; but ye’re ane o’ the fowk that’ll ne’er harry yoursel’ wi’ your presents; it’s but the pickle poother they cost you, an’ I’se warran’ ye’re thinkin mail’ o’ your ain diversion than o’ my stamick, when ye’re at the shootin’ o’ them, puir beasts.”

Mr. Douglas had borne the various indignities levelled against himself and his family with a philosophy that had no parallel in his life before; but to this attack upon his game he was not proof.  His colour rose, his eyes flashed fire, and something resembling an oath burst from his lips as he strode indignantly towards the door.

His friend, however, was too nimble for him.  She stepped before him, and, breaking into a discordant laugh, as she patted him on the back, “So I see ye’re just the auld man, Archie,—­aye ready to tak the strums, an’ ye dinna get a’ thing yer ain wye.  Mony a time I had to fleech ye oot o’ the dorts whan ye was a callant.  Div ye mind hoo ye was affronted because I set ye doon to a cauld pigeon-pie, an’ a tanker o’ tippenny, ae night to ye’re fowerhoors, afore some leddies—­he, he, he!  Weel a wat, yer wife maun hae her ain adoos to manage ye, for ye’re a cumstairy chield, Archie.”

Mr. Douglas still looked as if he was irresolute whether to laugh or be angry.

“Come, come, sit ye do on there till I speak to this bairn,” said she, as she pulled Mary into an adjoining bedchamber, which wore the same aspect of chilly neatness as the one they had quitted.  Then pulling a huge bunch of keys from her pocket she opened a drawer, out of which she took a pair of diamond earrings.  “Hae, bairn,” said she as she stuffed them into Mary’s hand; “they belanged to your father’s grandmother.  She was a gude woman, an’ had fouran’-twenty sons an’ dochters, an’ I wiss ye nae war fortin than just to hae as mony.  But mind ye,” with a shake of her bony finger, “they maun a be Scots.  Gin I thought ye wad mairry ony pock-puddin’, fient haed wad ye hae gotten frae me.  Noo, had ye’re tongue, and dinna deive me wi’ thanks,” almost pushing her into the parlour again; “and sin ye’re gaun awa the morn, I’ll see nae mair o’ ye enoo—­so fare ye weel.  But, Archie, ye maun come an’ tak your breakfast wi’ me.  I hae muckle to say to you; but ye manna be sae hard upon my baps as ye used to be,” with a facetious grin to her mollified favourite, as they shook hands and parted.

“Well, how do you like Mrs. Macshake, Mary?” asked her uncle as they walked home.

“That is a cruel question, uncle,” answered she, with a smile.  “My gratitude and my taste are at such variance,” displaying her splendid gift, “that I know not how to reconcile them.”