“Lady Allardyce,” said I, “for that I suppose to be your name, you seem to do the two sides of the talking, which is a very poor manner to come to an agreement.  You give me rather a home thrust when you ask if I would marry, at the gallows’ foot, a young lady whom I have seen but the once.  I have told you already I would never be so untenty as to commit myself.  And yet I’ll go some way with you.  If I continue to like the lass as well as I have reason to expect, it will be something more than her father, or the gallows either, that keeps the two of us apart.  As for my family, I found it by the wayside like a lost bawbee!  I owe less than nothing to my uncle; and if ever I marry, it will be to please one person:  that’s myself.”

“I have heard this kind of talk before ye were born,” said Mrs. Ogilvy, “which is perhaps the reason that I think of it so little.  There’s much to be considered.  This James More is a kinsman of mine, to my shame be it spoken.  But the better the family, the mair men hanged or heided, that’s always been poor Scotland’s story.  And if it was just the hanging!  For my part, I think I would be best pleased with James upon the gallows, which would be at least an end to him.  Catrine’s a good lass enough, and a good-hearted, and lets herself be deaved all day with a runt of an auld wife like me.  But, ye see, there’s the weak bit.  She’s daft about that long, false, fleeching beggar of a father of hers, and red-mad about the Gregara, and proscribed names, and King James, and a wheen blethers.  And you might think ye could guide her, ye would find yourself sore mista’en.  Ye say ye’ve seen her but the once...”

“Spoke with her but the once, I should have said,” I interrupted.  “I saw her again this morning from a window at Prestongrange’s.”

This I daresay I put in because it sounded well; but I was properly paid for my ostentation on the return.

“What’s this of it?” cries the old lady, with a sudden pucker of her face.  “I think it was at the Advocate’s door-cheek that ye met her first.”

I told her that was so.

“H’m,” she said; and then suddenly, upon rather a scolding tone, “I have your bare word for it,” she cries, “as to who and what you are.  By your way of it, you’re Balfour of the Shaws; but for what I ken you may be Balfour of the Deevil’s oxter.  It’s possible ye may come here for what ye say, and it’s equally possible ye may come here for deil care what!  I’m good enough whig to sit quiet, and to have keepit all my men-folk’s heads upon their shoulders.  But I’m not just a good enough whig to be made a fool of neither.  And I tell you fairly, there’s too much Advocate’s door and Advocate’s window here for a man that comes taigling after a Macgregor’s daughter.  Ye can tell that to the Advocate that sent ye, with my fond love.  And I kiss my loof to ye, Mr. Balfour,” says she, suiting the action to the word, “and a braw journey to ye back to where ye cam frae.”