“Well, well—­I suppose I must let you have your way.”

“Why, your honor,” replied Malcomson, “’am sure it mair becomes me to let you hae yours; but regerding this ould carl, I winna say, but he has been weel indoctrinated in the sceence.”

“Ahem! well, well, go on.”

“An’ it’s no easy to guess whare he could hae gotten it.  Indeed, ’am of opinion that he’s no without a hantle o’ book lair; for, to do him justice, de’il a question I spier at him, anent the learned names o’ the rare plants, that he hasna at his finger ends, and gies to me off-hand.  Naebody but a man that has gotten book lair could do yon.”

“Book lair, what is that?”

“Ou, just a correck knowledge o’ the learned names of the plants.  I dinna say, and I winna say, but he’s a velliable assistant to me, an’ I shouldna wish to pairt wi’ him.  If he’d only shave off yon beard, an’ let himsel’ be decently happed in good claiths, why he might pass in ony gentleman’s gerden for a skeelful buttanist.”

“Is he as good a kitchen gardener as he is in the green-house, and among the flowers?”

“Weel, your honor, guid troth, ’am sairly puzzled there; hoot, no, sir; de’il a thing almost he kens about the kitchen gerden—­a’ his strength lies among the flowers and in the green-house.”

“Well, well, that’s where we principally want him.  I sent for you, Malcomson, to desire you’d raise his wages—­the laborer is worthy of his hire; and a good laborer of good hire.  Let him have four shillings a week additional.”

“Troth, your honor, ‘am no sayin’ but he weel deserves it; but, Lord haud a care o’ us, he’s a queer one, yon.”

“Why, what do you mean?”

“Why, de’il heat he seems to care about siller any mair than if it was sklate stains.  On Saturday last, when he was paid his weekly wages by the steward, he met a puir sickly-lookin’ auld wife, wi’ a string o’ sickly-looking weans at the body’s heels; she didna ask him for charity, for, in troth, he appeared, binna it wearna for the weans, as great an objeck as hersel’; noo, what wad yer honor think? he gaes ower and gies till her a hale crown o’ siller out o’ his ain wage.  Was ever onything heard like yon?”

“Well, I know the cause of it, Malcomson.  He’s under a penance, and can neither shave nor change his dress till his silly penance is out; and I suppose it was to wash off a part of it that he gave this foolish charity to the poor woman and her children.  Come, although I condemn the folly of it, I don’t like him the worse for it.”

“Hout awa’, your honor, what is it but rank Papistry, and a dependence upon filthy works.  The doited auld carl, to throw aff his siller that gate; but that’s Papistry a’ ower—­substituting works for grace and faith—­a’ Papistry, a’ Papistry!  Well, your honor, I sal be conform to your wushes—­it’s my duty, that.”

CHAPTER XVII.—­Awful Conduct of Squire Folliard