, and we'll be
back as soon as the weather betters."

At this my uncle takes a turn round his room with a thoughtful frown on
his brow.

"No pranks," says he; "I'll have no gallivanting, but I ken fine ye
have an interest in the beasts. . . . Ye can go," and as we turned to
leave the room, he wheeled round with outstretched arm and his white
finger pointing.

"No pranks, mind. I'll have no pranks."

"God's life," says Dan, as we muffled ourselves for our tramp--"God's
life, Hamish, he's queer names for things, that uncle o' yours; there's
nae prank in my heid this night--a queer prank it would be no' tae warn
McGilp,"--and as we tramped through the kitchen where the lassies were
coorieing over the fire telling bawkin stories, and edging closer to
the farm lads for comfort when the gale moaned and whined in the wide
chimney--as we tramped through, old Betty took Dan by the sleeve.

"Let go, ye old randy," cried he, in a great pretence of terror. "I'm
thinking the old ones are perkier than the young ones these days. . . ."

"Och, my bairn, my bairn," cried the old woman, her two hands on him,
"will ye not be stopping in this night, this devil's night? It's nae
hogs that's taking ye trakin' weary miles this very night, and fine ye
ken the hogs are weel, but ye're just leadin' the young lad astray
efter some quean that'll be stickin' tae him like the buttons on his
coat.

"Wae's me, wae's me, will ye not have enough truck wi' the wenches
already that ye mak' me lie eching and pechin' and listening for the
death-watch on sic a nicht,"--and at that Jean giggled hysterically and
crept closer to Tam, and the old dame turned on her like a flash.

"Wheest, ye besom, wi' your deleries; there's trouble enough aboot the
night without you skirling like a craking hen. It's no' your kind I'm
feared for, ye useless one, but these wild hill lassies, for when the
devil is loose among the hills, he gars the wild blood leap in their
veins, and the wind tae loose the knot o' their lang hair--ay, and
he'll bring the man that'll gar them tingle at his touch, and send the
red blood flaming in their cheeks."

Dan's smile was broader and broader, and I noticed the red blood
flaming in the cheeks of our own sonsy dairy lassies, Liz and
Betty. . . .

"Ye were bred in the hills yourself, old mother," says Dan, and put an
arm round the withered old neck, "and I'm kissing you for that," and we
went out into the smother of the snowsto