“Ye’re verra welcome to that or ony ither beuk I hae,” replied Hugh, who began to feel already as if he were in the hands of a superior.

“Mony thanks; but ye see, sir, we hae eneuch to chow upo’ for an aucht days or so.”

By this time the potatoes wore considered to be cooked, and were accordingly lifted off the fire.  The water was then poured away, the lid put aside, and the pot hung once more upon the crook, hooked a few rings further up in the chimney, in order that the potatoes might be thoroughly dry before they were served.  Margaret was now very busy spreading the cloth and laying spoon and plates on the table.  Hugh rose to go.

“Will ye no bide,” said Janet, in a most hospitable tone, “an’ tak’ a het pitawta wi’ us?”

“I’m afraid of being troublesome,” answered he.

“Nae fear o’ that, gin ye can jist pit up wi’ oor hamely meat.”

“Mak nae apologies, Janet, my woman,” said David.  “A het pitawta’s aye guid fare, for gentle or semple.  Sit ye doun again, Maister Sutherlan’.  Maggy, my doo, whaur’s the milk?”

“I thocht Hawkie wad hae a drappy o’ het milk by this time,” said Margaret, “and sae I jist loot it be to the last; but I’ll hae’t drawn in twa minutes.”  And away she went with a jug, commonly called a decanter in that part of the north, in her hand.

“That’s hardly fair play to Hawkie,” said David to Janet with a smile.

“Hoot!  Dawvid, ye see we haena a stranger ilka nicht.”

“But really,” said Hugh, “I hope this is the last time you will consider me a stranger, for I shall be here a great many times—­that is, if you don’t get tired of me.”

“Gie us the chance at least, Maister Sutherlan’.  It’s no sma’ preevilege to fowk like us to hae a frien’ wi’ sae muckle buik learnin’ as ye hae, sir.”

“I am afraid it looks more to you than it really is.”

“Weel, ye see, we maun a’ leuk at the starns frae the hicht o’ oor ain een.  An’ ye seem nigher to them by a lang growth than the lave o’s.  My man, ye ought to be thankfu’.”

With the true humility that comes of worshipping the Truth, David had not the smallest idea that he was immeasurably nearer to the stars than Hugh Sutherland.

Maggie having returned with her jug full of frothy milk, and the potatoes being already heaped up in a wooden bowl or bossie in the middle of the table, sending the smoke of their hospitality to the rafters, Janet placed a smaller wooden bowl, called a caup, filled with deliciously yellow milk of Hawkie’s latest gathering, for each individual of the company, with an attendant horn-spoon by its side.  They all drew their chairs to the table, and David, asking no blessing, as it was called, but nevertheless giving thanks for the blessing already bestowed, namely, the perfect gift of food, invited Hugh to make a supper.  Each, in primitive but not ungraceful fashion, took a potatoe from the dish with the fingers, and ate it, “bite and sup,” with the help of the horn-spoon for the milk.  Hugh thought he had never supped more pleasantly, and could not help observing how far real good-breeding is independent of the forms and refinements of what has assumed to itself the name of society.