"Hoo are ye the nicht dawtie? Are ye verra weel? An' hoo's yer auntie?"
He waited for no reply to any of these questions, but went on.
"See what I hae brocht ye frae the chop."
So saying, he put into her hand about half-a-dozen _sweeties_, screwed
up in a bit of paper. With this gift he left her, and walked on to the
open door of the house, which, as a cousin, he considered himself
privileged to enter unannounced even by a knock. He found the mistress
of it in the kitchen, superintending the cooking of the supper.
"Hoo are ye the nicht, Marget?" he said, still in a tone of
conciliatory smoothness, through which, however, he could not prevent a
certain hardness from cropping out plentifully. "Ye're busy as usual, I
see. Weel, the hand o' the diligent maketh rich, ye ken."
"That portion o' the Word maun be o' leemited application, I doot,"
returned Marget, as, withdrawing her hand from her cousin's, she turned
again to the pot hanging over the fire. "No man daurs to say that my
han' has not been the han' o' the diligent; but Guid kens I'm nane the
richer."
"We maunna repine, Marget. Richt or wrang, it's the Lord's will."
"It's easy to you, Robert Bruce, wi' yer siller i' the bank, to speik
that gait til a puir lone body like me, that maun slave for my bread
whan I'm no sae young as I micht be.
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