ide, to
local fame, as "Maister Bishopriggs, Mistress Inchbare's right-hand
man."

"What are you doing there?" Anne asked, sharply.

Mr. Bishopriggs turned himself about on his gouty feet; waved his duster
gently in the air; and looked at Anne, with a mild, paternal smile.

"Eh! Am just doostin' the things; and setin' the room in decent order
for ye."

"For _me?_ Did you hear what the landlady said?"

Mr. Bishopriggs advanced confidentially, and pointed with a very
unsteady forefinger to the purse which Anne still held in her hand.

"Never fash yoursel' aboot the landleddy!" said the sage chief of the
Craig Fernie waiters. "Your purse speaks for you, my lassie. Pet it up!"
cried Mr. Bishopriggs, waving temptation away from him with the duster.
"In wi' it into yer pocket! Sae long as the warld's the warld, I'll
uphaud it any where--while there's siller in the purse, there's gude in
the woman!"

Anne's patience, which had resisted harder trials, gave way at this.

"What do you mean by speaking to me in that familiar manner?" she asked,
rising angrily to her feet again.

Mr. Bishopriggs tucked his duster under his arm, and proceeded to
satisfy Anne that he shared the landlady's view of her position, without
sharing the severity of the landlady's principles. "There's nae man
livin'," said Mr. Bishopriggs, "looks with mair indulgence at human
frailty than my ain sel'. Am I no' to be familiar wi' ye--when I'm auld
eneugh to be a fether to ye, and ready to be a fether to ye till further
notice? Hech! hech! Order your bit dinner lassie. Husband or no husband,
ye've got a stomach, and ye must een eat. There's fesh and there's
fowl--or, maybe, ye'll be for the sheep's head singit, when they've done
with it at the tabble dot?"

There was but one way of getting rid of him: "Order what you like," Anne
said, "and leave the room." Mr. Bishopriggs highly approved of the first
half of the sentence, and totally overlooked the second.

"Ay, ay--just pet a' yer little interests in my hands; it's the wisest
thing ye can do. Ask for Maister Bishopriggs (that's me) when ye want a
decent 'sponsible man to gi' ye a word of advice. Set ye doon again--set
ye doon. And don't tak' the arm-chair. Hech! hech! yer husband will
be coming, ye know, and he's sure to want it!" With that seasonable
pleasantry the venerable Bishopriggs winked, and went out.

Anne looked at her watch. By her calculation it was not far from the
hour when Geoffr