s increasing every minute.

"'What if her father can't leave her much gear, she has a head that's
worth all the gold in Willy's pocket, and more.' Then says 'Becca,
'What about Kitty Jackson?' 'Shaf,' says I, 'she's always curlin' her
hair before her bit of a looking-glass.' 'And what about Maggie of
Armboth?' says 'Becca. 'She hasn't got such a head as Rotha,' says I,
'forby that she's spending a fortune on starch, what with her caps,
and her capes, and her frills, and what not.'"

Liza had by this time rattled away, until by the combined exertion of
arms and tongue she had brought herself to a pause for lack of breath.
Resting one hand on the churn, she lifted the other to her head to
push back the hair that had tumbled over her forehead. As she tossed
up her head to facilitate the latter process, her eyes caught a
glimpse of Rotha's crimsoning face. "Well," she said, "I must say this
churn's a funny one; it seems to make you as red as 'Becca's turkey,
whether you're working at it or lookin' at some one else."

"Do you think I could listen to all that praise of myself and not
blush?" said Rotha, turning aside.

"I could--just try me and see," responded Liza, with a laugh. "That's
nothing to what Nabob Johnny said to me once, and I gave him a slap
over the lug for it, the strutting and smirking old peacock. Why, he's
all lace--lace at his neck and at his wrists, and on his--"

"You didn't favor _him_ much, Liza."

"No, but Daddie did; and he said" (the wicked little witch imitated
her father's voice and manner), "'Hark ye, lass, ye must hev him and
then ye'll be yan o' his heirs!' He wants one or two, I says, 'for the
old carle would be bald but for the three that are left on his
crown.'"

"Well, but what about Robbie Anderson?" said Rotha, regaining her
composure, with a laugh.

At this question Liza's manner underwent a change. The perky chirpness
that had a dash of wickedness, not to say of spite, in it, entirely
disappeared. Dropping her head and her voice together, she answered,--

"I don't know what's come over the lad. He's maunderin' about all day
long except when he's at the Lion, and then, I reckon, he's maunderin'
in another fashion."

"Can't you get him to bide by his work?"

"No; it's first a day for John Jackson at Armboth, and then two days
for Sammy Robson at the Lion, and what comes one way goes the other.
When he's sober--and that's not often in these days--he's as sour as
Mother Garth's