old lady, with a sudden pucker of her
face. "I think it was at the Advocate's door-cheek that ye met her
first."

I told her that was so.

"H'm," she said; and then suddenly, upon rather a scolding tone, "I have
your bare word for it," she cries, "as to who and what you are. By your
way of it, you're Balfour of the Shaws; but for what I ken you may be
Balfour of the Deevil's oxter. It's possible ye may come here for what
ye say, and it's equally possible ye may come here for deil care what!
I'm good enough whig to sit quiet, and to have keepit all my men-folk's
heads upon their shoulders. But I'm not just a good enough whig to be
made a fool of neither. And I tell you fairly, there's too much
Advocate's door and Advocate's window here for a man that comes taigling
after a Macgregor's daughter. Ye can tell that to the Advocate that sent
ye, with my fond love. And I kiss my loof to ye, Mr. Balfour," says she,
suiting the action to the word, "and a braw journey to ye back to where
ye cam frae."

"If you think me a spy," I broke out, and speech stuck in my throat. I
stood and looked murder at the old lady for a space, then bowed and
turned away.

"Here! Hoots! The callant's in a creel!" she cried. "Think ye a spy?
what else would I think ye--me that kens naething by ye? But I see that
I was wrong; and as I cannot fight, I'll have to apologise. A bonny
figure I would be with a broadsword. Ay! ay!" she went on, "you're none
such a bad lad in your way; I think ye'll have some redeeming vices.
But, oh, Davit Balfour, ye're damned countryfeed. Ye'll have to win over
that, lad; ye'll have to soople your back-bone, and think a wee pickle
less of your dainty self; and ye'll have to try to find out that
women-folk are nae grenadiers. But that can never be. To your last day
you'll ken no more of women-folk than what I do of sow-gelding."

I had never been used with such expressions from a lady's tongue, the
only two ladies I had known, Mrs. Campbell and my mother, being most
devout and most particular women; and I suppose my amazement must have
been depicted in my countenance, for Mrs. Ogilvy burst forth suddenly in
a fit of laughter.

"Keep me!" she cried, struggling with her mirth, "you have the finest
timber face--and you to marry the daughter of a Hieland cateran! Davie,
my dear, I think we'll have to make a match of it--if it was just to see
the weans. And now," she went on, "there's no manner of service in your
daidlin