In particular he
had made the acquaintance of James Dow, with whose knowing simplicity
he was greatly taken.

On the last day but one of his intended stay, as he went to make his
daily inquiry, he dropped in to see James Dow in the "harled
hypocrite." James had come in from his work, and was sitting alone on a
bench by the table, in a corner of the earth-floored kitchen. The great
pot, lidless, and full of magnificent potatoes, was hanging above the
fire, that its contents might be quite dry for supper. Through the
little window, a foot and a half square, Cupples could see the remains
of a hawthorn hedge, a hundred years old--a hedge no longer, but a row
of knobby, gnarled trees, full of knees and elbows; and through the
trees the remains of an orange-coloured sunset.--It was not a beautiful
country, as I have said before; but the spring was beautiful, and the
heavens were always beautiful; and, like the plainest woman's face, the
country itself, in its best moods, had no end of beauty.

"Hoo are ye, Jeames Doo?"

"Fine, I thank ye, sir," said James rising.

"I wad raither sit doon mysel', nor gar you stan' up efter yer day's
work, Jeames."

"Ow! I dinna warstle mysel' to the deith a'thegither."

But James, who was not a healthy man, was often in the wet field when
another would have been in bed, and righteously in bed. He had a strong
feeling of the worthlessness of man's life in comparison with the work
he has to do, even if that work be only the spreading of a fother of
dung. His mistress could not keep him from his work.

Mr Cupples sat down, and James resumed his seat.

"Ye're awfu' dubby (miry) aboot the feet, Mr Cupples. Jist gie me aff
yer shune, and I'll gie them a scrape and a lick wi' the
blackin'-brush," said James, again rising.

"Deil tak' me gin I do ony sic thing!" exclaimed Mr Cupples. "My
shune'll do weel eneuch."

"Whaur got ye a' that dub, sir? The roads is middlin' the day."

"I dinna aye stick to the roads, Jeames. I wan intil a bog first, and
syne intil some plooed lan' that was a' lumps o' clay shinin' green i'
the sun. Sae it's nae wonner gin I be some clortit. Will ye gie me a
pitawta, Jeames, in place o' the blackin'-brush?"

"Ay, twenty. But winna ye bide till Mysie comes in, and hae a drappy
milk wi' them? They're fine pitawtas the year."

"Na, na, I haena time."

"Weel, jist dip into the pot, and help yersel', sir; and I'll luik for
a grainy o' saut."

"Hoo's yer mistres