Mr. Robinson laughed, but not very heartily. 'Sae lang as it's no
a waddin' ring. . . . Weel, weel, this is the day for news.' He
touched his son's arm. 'It'll be the young lass in the stationery
shop--her that ye whiles see at yer Uncle Purdie's hoose--eh?'

'Hoo did ye ken?'

'Oh, jist guessed. It's her?'

'Maybe. . . . She hasna ta'en the ring yet.'

'But ye think she will, or ye wudna ha'e tell't me. Weel, I'm sure
I wish ye luck, Macgreegor. She's a bonny bit lass, rael clever, I
wud say, an'--an' gey stylish.'

'She's no that stylish--onyway, no stylish like Aunt Purdie.'

'Ah, but ye maunna cry doon yer Aunt Purdie----'

'I didna mean that. But ye ken what I mean, fayther.'

'Oh, fine, fine,' Mr. Robinson replied, thankful that he had not
been asked to explain precisely what _he_ had meant. 'She bides wi'
her uncle an' aunt, does she no?' he continued, thoughtfully. 'I'm
wonderin' what they'll say aboot this. I doobt they'll say ye're
faur ower young to be thinkin' o' a wife.'

It was on Macgregor's tongue to retort that he had never thought of
any such thing, when his father went on----