t Sunnybraes, Andrew found his young mistress's provisionary clause
altogether unnecessary; for, no sooner had he announced his errand, than
the old farmer rose to make way for the stranger: "Get up, George," said
he to his son; "an' you, Meg," turning to his wife, "lift out owre your
wheel, an' let the poor lad in by to the fire. An' d'ye hear?--if ever
whisky did mortal creature guid, it maun be on a night like this; sae,
though I drink nane mysel, gang ye and gie him a glass."

The stranger was accordingly placed by the fire, and a glass was
brought; but still it was considered that, as he must be drenched to the
skin, a shift of clothes would be necessary. On this proposal being
made, Mrs. Chrighton cast a significant look, first at her son, and then
at her husband:--

"Hoot, woman," cried the latter, interpreting her look, "bring the duds,
an', if ye hae ony fear about them, the lassie Kate can gie ye a help to
wash them, some weety day. An' weety days are like to be owre rife noo,
for ony guid they're doin.--Our guidewife," he continued, addressing
their guest, "has aye been fear'd for infectious diseases since a
beggar-wife brought the fever to the town mair than fourteen years back.
But, though ye had five-and-twenty fevers--ay, fifty o' them--that's no
enough to let you get your death o' cauld wi thae weet claes on; sae ye
maun e'en consent to shift yoursel."

The stranger's language was a strange mixture of the best English and
the broadest Scotch; and this circumstance, after exciting a degree of
surprise in the minds of all, induced the guidwife to make some indirect
inquiries concerning his profession and station in society.

"I've been thinkin ye're no just a here-a-wa man, by your tongue," said
she; "an', if I'm no mista'en, ye've seen better days; for, when I was
bringin butt your wet claes to get them dried, though your bit jacket
an' your breeks were just corduroy, I couldna help noticin that there is
no a bit bonnier linen inowre our door than the sark ye had on."

To these observations it seemed as if the stranger scarce knew how to
reply--he passed his hand across his brow, and was silent for some
seconds. But, on recovering himself, he told them that his name was
Duncan Cowpet--that he had been born in Scotland, but his parents had
removed to England when he was very young--that he had lately been a
traveller for a house in London, but his master being now dead, and
himself out of employment, h