The kitchen is very tidy.  A newspaper newly fallen to the rug before the fire and another—­an evening one—­spread flat on the table are (besides a child’s mug and plate, also on the table) the only things not stowed in their prescribed places.  It is evening—­the light beyond the little square window being the gray dimness of a long Northern twilight which slowly deepens during the play.  When the curtain rises it is still light enough in the room for a man to read if the print be not too faint and his eyes be good.  The warm light of the fire leaps and flickers through the gray, showing up with exceptional clearness the deep-lined face of old DAVID PIRNIE, who is discovered half-risen from his armchair above the fire, standing on the hearth-rug, his body bent and his hand on the chair arm.  He is a little, feeble old man with a well-shaped head and weather-beaten face, set off by a grizzled beard and whiskers, wiry and vigorous, in curious contrast to the wreath of snowy hair that encircles his head.  His upper lip is shaven.  He wears an old suit—­the unbuttoned waistcoat of which shows an old flannel shirt.  His slippers are low at the heel and his socks loose at the ankles.

The old man’s eyes are fixed appealingly on those of his daughter, who stands in the half-open door, her grasp on the handle, meeting his look squarely—­a straight-browed, black-haired, determined young woman of six or seven and twenty.  Her husband, JOHN, seated at the table in his shirt-sleeves with his head in his hands, reads hard at the paper and tries to look unconcerned.

DAVID.  Aw—­but, Lizzie—­

LIZZIE (with splendid firmness).  It’s nae use, feyther.  I’m no’ gaein’ to gie in to the wean.  Ye’ve been tellin’ yer stories to him nicht after nicht for dear knows how long, and he’s gettin’ to expect them.

DAVID.  Why should he no’ expect them?

LIZZIE.  It disna do for weans to count on things so.  He’s layin’ up a sad disappointment for himself yin o’ these days.

DAVID.  He’s gettin’ a sad disappointment the noo.  Och, come on, Lizzie.  I’m no’ gaein’ to dee just yet, an’ ye can break him off gradually when I begin to look like to.

LIZZIE.  Who’s talkin’ o’ yer deein’, feyther?

DAVID.  Ye were speakin’ o’ the disappointment he was layin’ up for himself if he got to count on me—­

LIZZIE.  I wasna thinkin’ o’ yer deein’, feyther—­only—­it’s no guid for a bairn—­

DAVID.  Where’s the harm in my giein’ him a bit story before he gangs tae his bed?

LIZZIE.  I’m no sayin’ there’s ony harm in it this yinst, feyther; but it’s no richt to gae on nicht after nicht wi’ never a break—­

DAVID.  Whit wey is it no richt if there’s nae harm in it?

LIZZIE.  It’s giein’ in to the wean.

DAVID.  Whit wey should ye no’ gie in to him if there’s nae harm in it?

LIZZIE (keeping her patience with difficulty).  Because it gets him into the habit.