"T' auld mistress is."
"Say Mr. Corfield, please," said Alick; and Jenny, telling him to "gang
intilt parlor," scuffled off to Keziah, pottering over some pickled red
cabbage, which made the house smell like a vinegar-cask.
"I've heard tell of you," said Miss Gryce as she came in wiping her
hands on a serviceable and by no means luxurious cloth: "Emmanuel wrote
me a letter about you. You're kindly welcome to Monk Grange, but you're
only a haverel to look at. Take a seat, and tell me--how's Emmanuel, my
brother?"
"He was well when I saw him the day before yesterday: at least he said
nothing to the contrary," answered Alick with his conscientious
literalness.
"I like that," said Keziah, also eying him, but as a colley might have
eyed a strange sheep, not a wolf. "A random rory would have made no
difference between now and two days back, and believing and being. You
cannot be over-particular in the truth, I take it."
Alick blushed, shifted his place and looked uneasy. And again, as so
often before, it came across him: had he done right, judged by the
highest law, to conceal the truth as he knew it about Leam?
"Hoot, man! there's no call for you to sit on pins and needles in that
fashion," said Keziah. "It's a daft body that cannot hear a word of
praise without turning as red as a turkey-cock and fidging like a
parched pea on a drum-head. I've not turned much of you over yet, and
maybe I'll come to what I'll have no mind to praise; so keep your fidges
till you are touched up with the other end of the stick.
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