about
malingering. He came to roof the pigstye. He tore off the old thatch,
and there it lies, and there will lie for him. If there is frost,
Girzie's brood will be stiff by the morning. Then he 'had a look' at my
roasting-jack and ... there it is!"

She indicated with an indignant sweep of the hand what she designated "a
rickle o' rubbish" as the net proceeds of Boyd's industry.

The artist explained himself between the mouthfuls at his third repast.

"Ye see, Miss Lyon, there's nocht that spoils good work like worry on
the mind. The pigs will do fine. I'll put a branch or two over them and
a corn-sack over that. If a drap o' rain comes through it will only
harden the wee grunties for the trials o' life. Aye" (here Boyd relapsed
into philosophy), "life is fu' o' trials, for pigs as weel as men. But
men the worst--for as for pigs, their bread is given them and their
water is sure. Now as for myself----"

"Yourself," cried Aunt Jen, entering into one of her sudden rages, "if
ye were half as much worth to the world as our old sow Girzie, ye wad be
salted and hanging up by the heels now! As it is, ye run the country
like Crazy, our collie, a burden to yourself and a nuisance to the world
at lairge!

"Eh, Miss Jen, but it's the word ye have, as I was sayin' to Rob McTurk
up at the pirn-mill last Tuesday week. 'If only our Miss Jen there had
been a man,' says I, 'it's never Lalor Maitland that would have been
sent to sit in King George's High House o' Parliament.'"

Again Boyd Connoway took up his burden of testimony.

"Aye, Miss Jen, there's some that's born to trouble as the sparks fly
upward. That's me, Miss Jen. Now there's my brother that's a farmer in
County Donegal. Niver a market night sober--and _yet_ he's not to say
altogether content. An' many is the time I say to our Bridget, 'What
would you do if I was Brother Jerry of Ballycross, coming home to ye in
the box of the gig, and the reins on the horse's neck?'

"'Ye never _had_ a horse,' says she, and thinks that an answer! Women's
heads are born void of logic, and what they fill them with--axing your
pardon, Mistress Lyon, ah, if they were all like you--'tis a happier
place this world would be!"

"Finish, and let us get the dishes cleared away!" said my grandmother,
who did not stand upon fashions of speech, least of all with Boyd
Connoway.

Boyd hastened to obey, ladling everything within reach into his mouth as
fast as knife and spoon could follow eac