“Jess,” said Ebie, “ye’re a wunnerfu’ woman!” which was his version of Ralph’s “You are a witch.”  In Ebie’s circle “witch” was too real a word to be lightly used, so he said “wunnerfu’ woman.”

He went on looking critically at Jess, as became so great a connoisseur of the sex.

“I hae seen, maybes, bonnier faces, as ye micht say—­”

“Haud aff, wi’ ye there; mind whaur yer comin’, ye muckle senseless nowt!” said Jess to her Ayrshire Hornie, who had been treading on her toes.

“As I was sayin’, Jess, I hae seen—­”

“Can ye no UNNERSTAN’, ye senseless lump?” cried Jess, warningly; “I’ll knock the heid aff ye, gin ye dinna drap it!” still to Hornie, of course.

But the purblind theorist went on his way:  “I hae seen bonnier faces, but no mair takin’, Jess, than yours.  It’s no aye beauty that tak’s a man, Jess, ye see, an’ the lassies that hae dune best hae been plain-favoured lassies that had pleasant expressions—­”

“Tell the rest to Hornie gin ye like!” said Jess, rising viciously and leaving Ebie standing there dumfounded.  He continued to hold Hornie’s tail for some time, as if he wished to give her some further information on the theory of beauty, as understood in the “laich” end of the parish.

Saunders saw him from afar, and cried out to him down the length of the byre,

“Are ye gaun to mak’ a watch-guard o’ that coo’s tail, Ebie?—­ye look fell fond o’t.”

“Ye see what it is to be in love,” said John Scott, the herd, who had stolen to the door unperceived and so had marked Ebie’s discomfiture.

“He disna ken the difference between Jess hersel’ an’ Hornie!” said the Cuif, who was repaying old scores.

CHAPTER XIX.

AT THE BARN END

In a little while the cows were all milked.  Saunders was standing at the end of the barn, looking down the long valley of the Grannoch water.  There was a sweet coolness in the air, which he vaguely recognized by taking off his hat.

“Open the yett!” cried Jess, from the byre door.  Saunders heard the clank and jangle of the neck chains of Hornie and Specky and the rest, as they fell from their necks, loosened by Jess’s hand.  The sound grew fainter and fainter as Jess proceeded to the top of the byre where Marly stood soberly sedate and chewed her evening cud.  Now Marly did not like Jess, therefore Meg always milked her; she would not, for some special reason of her own, “let doon her milk” when Jess laid a finger on her.  This night she only shook her head and pushed heavily against Jess as she came.

“Hand up there, ye thrawn randy!” said Jess in byre tones.

And so very sulkily Marly moved out, looking for Meg right and left as she did so.  She had her feelings as well as any one, and she was not the first who had been annoyed by the sly, mischievous gipsy with the black eyes, who kept so quiet before folk.  As she went out of the byre door, Jess laid her switch smartly across Marly’s loins, much to the loss of dignity of that stately animal, who, taking a hasty step, slipped on the threshold, and overtook her neighbours with a slow resentment gathering in her matronly breast.