“You see, the way o’t is this, sir:  yin’s mither—­(an’ mind, I’m far frae sayin’ a word agin my ain mither—­she’s a guid yin, for a’ her tongue, whilk, ye ken, sir, she canna help ony mair than bein’ a woman;) but ye ken, that when ye come hame frae the Black Bull, gin a man has only his mither, she begins to flyte on [scold] him, an’ cast up to him what his faither, that’s i’ the grave, wad hae said, an’ maybe on the back o’ that she begins the greetin’.  Noo, that’s no comfortable, ava.  A man that gangs to the Black Bull disna care a flee’s hin’ leg what his faither wad hae said.  He disna want to be grutten ower [wept over]; na, what he wants is a guid-gaun tongue, a wullin’ airm, an’ a heather besom no ower sair worn.”

Ralph nodded in his turn in appreciative comment.

“Then, on the morrow’s morn, when ye rub yer elbow, an’ fin’ forbye that there’s something on yer left shoother-blade that’s no on the ither, ye tak’ a resolve that ye’ll come straught hame the nicht.  Then, at e’en, when ye come near the Black Bull, an’ see the crony that ye had a glass wi’ the nicht afore, ye naturally tak’ a bit race by juist to get on the safe side o’ yer hame.  I’m hearin’ aboot new-fangled folk that they ca’ ’temperance advocates,’ Maister Ralph, but for my pairt gie me a lang-shankit besom, an’ a guid-wife’s wullin airm!”

These are all the opinions of Saunders Mowdiewort about besom-shanks.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

That gipsy Jess.

Saunders took Ralph’s letter to Craig Ronald with him earlier that night than usual, as Ralph had desired him.  At the high hill gate, standing directing the dogs to gather the cows off the hill for milking, he met Jess.

“Hae ye ouy news, Saunders?” she asked, running down to the little foot-bridge to meet him.  Saunders took it as a compliment; and, indeed, it was done with a kind of elfish grace, which cast a glamour over his eyes.  But Jess, who never did anything without a motive, really ran down to be out of sight of Ebie Farrish, who stood looking at her from within the stable door.

“Here’s a letter for ye, Jess,” Saunders said, importantly, handing her Ralph’s letter.  “He seemed rale agitatit when he brocht it in to me, but I cheered him up by tellin’ him how ye wad dreel him wi’ the besom-shank gin he waur to gang to the Black Bull i’ the forenichts.”

“Gang to the Black Bull!—­what div ye mean, ye gomeril?—­Saunders I mean; ye ken weel that Maister Peden wadna gang to ony Black Bull.”

“Weel, na, I ken that; it was but a mainner o’ speakin’; but I can see that he’s fair daft ower ye, Jess.  I ken the signs o’ love as weel as onybody.  But hoo’s Meg—­an’ do ye think she likes me ony better?”

“She was speakin’ aboot ye only this mornin’,” answered Jess pleasantly, “she said that ye waur a rale solid, sensible man, no a young ne’er-do-weel that naebody kens whaur he’ll be by the Martinmas term.”