“Gin ye want a wife, Saunders, ye’ll hae to look oot for a deef yin, for it’s no ony or’nar’ woman that could stand yer mither’s tongue.  Na, Saunders, it wad be like leevin’ i’ a corn-mill rinnin’ withoot sheaves.”

“Meg,” said Saunders, edging up cautiously, “I hae something to gie ye!”

“Aff wi’ ye, Cuif!  I’ll hae nae trokin’ wi’ lads i’ the byre—­na, there’s a time for everything—­especial wi’ widowers, they’re the warst o’ a’—­they ken ower muckle.  My granny used to say, gin Solomon couldna redd oot the way o’ a man wi’ a maid, what wad he hae made o’ the way o’ a weedower that’s lookin’ for his third?”

CHAPTER XVIII.

A daughter of the picts.

The Cuif put his hands in his pockets as if to keep them away from the dangerous temptation of touching Meg.  He stood with his shoulder against the wall and chewed a straw.

“What’s come o’ Maister Peden thae days?” asked Meg.

“He’s maist michty unsettled like,” replied Saunders, “he’s for a’ the world like a stirk wi’ a horse cleg on him that he canna get at.  He comes in an’ sits doon at his desk, an’ spreads oot his buiks, an’ ye wad think that he’s gaun to be at it the leevelang day.  But afore ye hae time to turn roon’ an’ get at yer ain wark, the craitur’ll be oot again an’ awa’ up to the hill wi’ a buik aneath his oxter.  Then he rises early in the mornin’, whilk is no a guid sign o’ a learned man, as I judge.  What for should a learned man rise afore his parritch is made?  There maun be something sair wrang,” said Saunders Mowdiewort.

“Muckle ye ken aboot learned men.  I suppose, ye think because ye carry up the Bible, that ye ken a’ that’s in’t,” returned Meg, with a sneer of her voice that might have turned milk sour.  The expression of the emotions is fine and positive in the kitchens of the farm towns of Galloway.

“Swish, swish!” steadily the white streams of milk shot into the pails.  “Jangle, jangle!” went the steel head chains of the cows.  Occasionally, as Jess and Meg lifted their stools, they gave Flecky or Speckly a sound clap on the back with their hand or milking-pail, with the sharp command of “Stan’ aboot there!” “Haud up!” “Mind whaur yer comin’!” Such expressions as these Jess and Meg could interject into the even tenor of their conversation, in a way that might have been disconcerting in dialogues conducted on other principles.  But really the interruptions did not affect Ebie Farrish or any other of the byre-visiting young men, any more than the rattling of the chains, as Flecky and Speckly arranged their own business at the end devoted to imports.  These sharp words of command were part of the nightly and morningly ceremony of the “milking” at every farm.  The cans could no more froth with the white reaming milk without this accompaniment of slaps and adjurations than Speckly, Flecky, and the rest could take their slow, thoughtfully considerate, and sober way from the hill pastures into the yard without Meg at the gate of the field to cry:  “Hurley, Hurley, hie awa’ hame!” to the cows themselves; and “Come awa’ bye wi’ them, fetch them, Roger!” to the short-haired collie, who knew so much better than to go near their flashing heels.