The particular cuif so addressed by Meg came slowly over the knoll.

“Guid e’en to ye,” he said, with his best visiting manners.

“Can ye no see me as weel, Saunders?” said Jess, archly, for all was grist that came to her mill.

Saunders rose like a trout to the fly.

“Ow aye, Jess, lass, I saw ye brawly, but it disna do to come seekin’ twa lasses at ae time."’

“Dinna ye be thinkin’ to put awa’ Meg, an’ then come coortin’ me!” said Jess, sharply.

Saunders was hurt for the moment at this pointed allusion both to his profession and also to his condition as a “seekin’” widower.

“Wha seeks you, Jess, ’ill be sair ill-aff!” he replied very briskly for a cuif.

The sound of Meg’s voice in round altercation with Jock Gordon, the privileged “natural” or innocent fool of the parish, interrupted this interchange of amenities, which was indeed as friendly and as much looked for between lads and lasses as the ordinary greeting of “Weel, hoo’s a’ wi’ ye the nicht?” which began every conversation between responsible folks.

“Jock Gordon, ye lazy ne’er-do-weel, ye hinna carried in a single peat, an’ it comin’ on for parritch-time.  D’ye think my maister can let the like o’ you sorn on him, week in, week oot, like a mawk on a sheep’s hurdie?  Gae wa’ oot o’ that, lyin’ sumphin’ [sulking] an’ sleepin’ i’ the middle o’ the forenicht, an’ carry the water for the boiler an’ bring in the peats frae the stack.”

Then there arose a strange elricht quavering voice—­the voice of those to whom has not been granted their due share of wits.  Jock Gordon was famed all over the country for his shrewd replies to those who set their wits in contest with his.  Jock is remembered on all Deeside, and even to Nithsdale.  He was a man well on in years at this time, certainly not less than forty-five.  But on his face there was no wrinkle set, not a fleck of gray upon his bonnetless fox-red shock of hair, weather-rusted and usually stuck full of feathers and short pieces of hay.  Jock Gordon was permitted to wander as a privileged visitor through the length and breadth of the south hill country.  He paid long visits to Craig Ronald, where he had a great admiration and reverence for the young mistress, and a hearty detestation for Meg Kissock, who, as he at all times asserted, “was the warst maister to serve atween the Cairnsmuirs.”

“Richt weel I’ll do yer biddin’, Meg Kissock,” he answered in his shrill falsetto, “but no for your sake or the sake o’ ony belangin’ to you.  But there’s yae bonny doo [dove], wi’ her hair like gowd, an’ a fit that she micht set on Jock Gordon’s neck, an’ it wad please him weel.  An’ said she, ’Do the wark Meg Kissock bids ye,’ so Jock Gordon, Lord o’ Kelton Hill an’ Earl o’ Clairbrand, will perform a’ yer wull.  Otherwise it’s no in any dochter o’ Hurkle-backit [bent-backed] Kissock to gar Jock Gordon move haund or fit.”