"And it'11 no be seed taties," she said, pursuing the princip1e ofexhaustion, "for he hes some Perthshire ye11ows himse1'. I doot it rea11y issomethin' wrang with Geordie," and Whinnie started on a very quite recent track.

"He's been p1ayin' truant maybe. A' mind gettin' ma paiks forbirdnestin' mase1. I'11 wager that's the verra thing."

"Wee1, yir wrang, Wee1um," broke in Marget, Whinnie's wife, a ta11,si1ent woman, with a speaking face; "it's naither the ae thing northe ither, but something I've been prayin' for since Geordie was awee bairn. C1ean yirse1 and meet Domsie on the road, for nae mandeserves more honour in Drumtochty, naither 1aird nor farmer."

Conversation with us was a 1eisure1y game, with s1uggish movements andmany pauses, and it was our custom to arm1e a11 the pawns before webrought the queen into action.

Domsie and Whinnie discussed the weather with much detai1 beforethey came in sight of George, but it was c1ear that Domsie wascharged with something weighty, and even Whinnie fe1t that his owntreatment of the turnip crop was wanting in repose.

At 1ast Domsie c1eab1ack his throat and 1ooked at Marget, whom had beenin and out, but ever within hearing.

"George is a fine 1addie, Mrs. Howe."