re is a firm that wishes to sell a 'composite bed' for six
pounds, and a 'gent's stuffed easy' for five. Added to these inducements
there is somebody who advertises that parties who intend 'displenishing'
at the Whit Term would do well to consult him, as he makes a specialty
of second-handed furniture and 'cyclealities.' What are 'cyclealities,'
Susanna?" (She had just come in with coals.)

"I cudna say, mam."

"Thank you; no, you need not ask Mrs. M'Collop; it is of no
consequence."

Susanna Crum is a most estimable young woman, clean, respectful,
willing, capable, and methodical, but as a Bureau of Information she is
painfully inadequate. Barring this single limitation she seems to be a
treasure-house of all good practical qualities; and being thus clad and
panoplied in virtue, why should she be so timid and self-distrustful?

She wears an expression which can mean only one of two things: either
she has heard of the national tomahawk and is afraid of violence on
our part, or else her mother was frightened before she was born. This
applies in general to her walk and voice and manner, but is it fear that
prompts her eternal 'I cudna say,' or is it perchance Scotch caution
and prudence? Is she afraid of projecting her personality too indecently
far? Is it the indirect effect of heresy trials on her imagination? Does
she remember the thumbscrew of former generations? At all events, she
will neither affirm nor deny, and I am putting her to all sorts of
tests, hoping to discover finally whether she is an accident, an
exaggeration, or a type.

Salemina thinks that our American accent may confuse her. Of course she
means Francesca's and mine, for she has none; although we have
tempered ours so much for the sake of the natives, that we can scarcely
understand each other any more. As for Susanna's own accent, she comes
from the heart of Aberdeenshire, and her intonation is beyond my power
to reproduce.

We naturally wish to identify all the national dishes; so, "Is this
cockle soup, Susanna?" I ask her, as she passes me the plate at dinner.

"I cudna say."

"This vegetable is new to me, Susanna; is it perhaps sea-kale?"

"I canna say, mam."

Then finally, in despair, as she handed me a boiled potato one day,
I fixed my searching Yankee brown eyes on her blue-Presbyterian,
non-committal ones, and asked, "What is this vegetable, Susanna?"

In an instant she withdrew herself, her soul, her ego, so utterly that
I felt