ys. The old-established carrier of the place brought his
fishing-rod and travelling-trunk, with a letter to Meg, dated a week
previously, desiring her to prepare to receive an old acquaintance. This
annunciation, though something of the latest, Meg received with great
complacency, observing it was a civil attention in Maister Tirl; and
that John Hislop, though he was not just sae fast, was far surer than
ony post of them a', or express either. She also observed with
satisfaction, that there was no gun-case along with her guest's baggage;
"for that weary gunning had brought him and her into trouble--the lairds
had cried out upon't, as if she made her house a howff for common
fowlers and poachers; and yet how could she hinder twa daft hempie
callants from taking a start and an ower-loup?[I-10] They had been ower
the neighbour's ground they had leave on up to the march, and they
werena just to ken meiths when the moorfowl got up."

In a day or two, her guest fell into such quiet and solitary habits,
that Meg, herself the most restless and bustling of human creatures,
began to be vexed, for want of the trouble which she expected to have
had with him, experiencing, perhaps, the same sort of feeling from his
extreme and passive indifference on all points, that a good horseman has
for the over-patient steed, which he can scarce feel under him. His
walks were devoted to the most solitary recesses among the neighbouring
woods and hills--his fishing-rod was often left behind him, or carried
merely as an apology for sauntering slowly by the banks of some little
brooklet--and his success so indifferent, that Meg said the piper of
Peebles[I-11] would have caught a creelfu' before Maister Francie made out
the half-dozen; so that he was obliged, for peace's sake, to vindicate
his character, by killing a handsome salmon.

Tyrrel's painting, as Meg called it, went on equally slowly: He often,
indeed, showed her the sketches which he brought from his walks, and
used to finish at home; but Meg held them very cheap. What signified,
she said, a wheen bits of paper, wi' black and white scarts upon them,
that he ca'd bushes, and trees, and craigs?--Couldna he paint them wi'
green, and blue, and yellow, like the other folk? "Ye will never mak
your bread that way, Maister Francie. Ye suld munt up a muckle square of
canvass, like Dick Tinto, and paint folks ainsells, that they like
muckle better to see than ony craig in the haill water; and I wa