"
"Jist help me oot, an' lea' the lave to me," said Annie, confidently.
"Gin I dinna fess a loaf o' white breid, never lippen (trust) to me
again."
The idea of the bread, always a rarity and consequent delicacy to
Scotch country boys, so early in the century as the date of my story,
was too much for Alec's imagination. He jumped up, and put his head out
of one of those open panes to reconnoitre. He saw a woman approaching
whom he knew.
"I say, Lizzie," he called.
The woman stopped.
"What's yer wull, Maister Alec?"
"Jist stan' there an' pu' this lassie oot. We're a' keepit in
thegither, and nearhan' hungert."
"The Lord preserve 's! I'll gang for the key."
"Na, na; _we_ wad hae to pay for that. Tak her oot--that's a' we want."
"He's a coorse crayter--that maister o' yours. I wad gang to see him
hangt."
"Bide a wee; that'll come in guid time," said Alec,
pseudo-prophetically.
"Weel I s' hae a pu' at the legs o' him, to help him to jeedgement; for
he'll be the deith o' ane or twa o' ye afore lang."
"Never min' Murder Malison. Will ye tak oot the bit lassie?"
"Od will I! Whaur is she?"
Alec jumped down and held her up to the open pane, not a foot square.
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