“Na,” said Saunders; “I haena that, though I hae made up my mind to hae it oot wi’ her this verra nicht—­if sae it micht be that ye warna needin’ me, that is—­” he added, doubtfully, “but I hae guid reason to hope that Meg—­”

“What reason have you, Saunders?  Has Margaret expressed a preference for you in any way?”

“Preference!” said Saunders; “’deed she has that, minister; a maist marked preference.  It was only the last Tuesday afore Whussanday [Whitsunday] that she gied me a clour [knock] i’ the lug that fair dang me stupid.  Caa that ye nocht?”

“Well, Saunders,” said the minister, going out, “certainly I wish you good speed in your wooing; but see that you fall no more out with Birsie, lest you be more bruised than you are now; and for the rest, learn wisely to restrain your unruly member.”

“Thank ye, minister,” said Saunders; “I’ll do my best endeavours to obleege ye.  Meg’s clours are to be borne wi’ a’ complaisancy, but Birsie’s dunts are, so to speak, gratuitous!”

CHAPTER IX.

The advent of the cuif.

“Here’s the Cuif!” said Meg Kissock, who with her company gown on, and her face glowing from a brisk wash, sat knitting a stocking in the rich gloaming light at the gable end of the house of Craig Ronald.  Winsome usually read a book, sitting by the window which looked up the long green croft to the fir-woods and down to the quiet levels of Loch Grannoch, on which the evening mist was gathering a pale translucent blue.  It was a common thing for Meg and Jessie Kissock to bring their knitting and darning there, and on their milking-stools sit below the window.  If Winsome were in a mood for talk she did not read much, but listened instead to the brisk chatter of the maids.  Sometimes the ploughmen, Jock Forrest and Ebie Farrish, came to “ca’ the crack,” and it was Winsome’s delight on these occasions to listen to the flashing claymore of Meg Kissock’s rustic wit.  Before she settled down, Meg had taken in the three tall candles “ben the hoose,” where the old people sat—­Walter Skirving, as ever, silent and far away, his wife deep in some lively book lent her by the Lady Elizabeth out of the library of Greatorix Castle.

A bank of wild thyme lay just beneath Winsome’s window, and over it the cows were feeding, blowing softly through their nostrils among the grass and clover till the air was fragrant with their balmy breath.

“Guid e’en to ye, ‘Cuif,’” cried Meg Kissock as soon as Saunders Mowdiewort came within earshot.  He came stolidly forward tramping through the bog with his boots newly greased with what remained of the smooth candle “dowp” with which he had sleeked his flaxen locks.  He wore a broad blue Kilmarnock bonnet, checked red and white in a “dam-brod” [draught-board] pattern round the edge, and a blue-buttoned coat with broad pearl buttons.  It may be well to explain that there is a latent meaning, apparent only to Galloway folk of the ancient time, in the word “cuif.”  It conveys at once the ideas of inefficiency and folly, of simplicity and the ignorance of it.  The cuif is a feckless person of the male sex, who is a recognized butt for a whole neighbourhood to sharpen its wits upon.