e was rarely visible,
but from which burst occasional guffaws of laughter.

At the words 'droont himsel',' Mrs. Falconer started.

'Rin, laddie, rin,' she said, 'an' fess him back direckly! Betty! Betty!
gang wi' Robert and help him to luik for Shargar. Ye auld, blin', doited
body, 'at says ye can see, and canna tell a lad frae a lass!'

'Na, na, grannie. I'm no gaein' oot wi' a dame like her trailin' at
my fut. She wad be a sair hinnerance to me. Gin Shargar be to be
gotten--that is, gin he be in life--I s' get him wantin' Betty. And gin
ye dinna ken him for the crater ye fand i' the garret, he maun be sair
changed sin' I left him there.'

'Weel, weel, Robert, gang yer wa's. But gin ye be deceivin' me, may the
Lord--forgie ye, Robert, for sair ye'll need it.'

'Nae fear o' that, grannie,' returned Robert, from the street door, and
vanished.

Mrs. Falconer stalked--No, I will not use that word of the gait of a
woman like my friend's grandmother. 'Stately stept she butt the hoose'
to Betty. She felt strangely soft at the heart, Robert not being yet
proved a reprobate; but she was not therefore prepared to drop one atom
of the dignity of her relation to her servant.

'Betty,' she said, 'ye hae made a mistak.'

'What's that, mem?' returned Betty.

'It wasna a lass ava; it was that crater Shargar.'

'Ye said it was a lass yersel' first, mem.'

'Ye ken weel eneuch that I'm short sichtit, an' hae been frae the day o'
my birth.'

'I'm no auld eneuch to min' upo' that, mem,' returned Betty
revengefully, but in an undertone, as if she did not intend her mistress
to hear, And although she heard well enough, her mistress adopted
the subterfuge. 'But I'll sweir the crater I saw was in cwytes
(petticoats).'

'Sweir not at all, Betty. Ye hae made a mistak ony gait.'

'Wha says that, mem?'

'Robert.'

'Aweel, gin he be tellin' the trowth--'

'Daur ye mint (insinuate) to me that a son o' mine wad tell onything but
the trowth?'

'Na, na, mem. But gin that wasna a quean, ye canna deny but she luikit
unco like ane, and no a blate (bashful) ane eyther.'

'Gin he was a loon, he wadna luik like a blate lass, ony gait, Betty.
And there ye're wrang.'

'Weel, weel, mem, hae 't yer ain gait,' muttered Betty.

'I wull hae 't my ain gait,' retorted her mistress, 'because it's the
richt gait, Betty. An' noo ye maun jist gang up the stair, an' get the
place cleant oot an' put in order.'

'I wull do that, mem.'

'Ay wu