"I didna ken it was sae late, mither," replied Margaret, in a
submissive tone, musical in spite of the rugged dialect into which
the sounds were fashioned.

"Nae dout! Ye had yer brakfast, an' ye warna that hungry for the
word. But here comes yer father, and ye'll no mend for his flytin',
I'se promise."

"Hoots! lat the bairn alane, Janet, my woman. The word'll be mair
to her afore lang."

"I wat she has a word o' her nain there. What beuk hae ye gotten
there, Meg? Whaur got ye't?"

Had it not been for the handsome binding of the book in her
daughter's hand, it would neither have caught the eye, nor roused
the suspicions of Janet. David glanced at the book in his turn, and
a faint expression of surprise, embodied chiefly in the opening of
his eyelids a little wider than usual, crossed his face. But he
only said with a smile:

"I didna ken that the tree o' knowledge, wi' sic fair fruit, grew in
our wud, Maggy, my doo."

"Whaur gat ye the beuk?" reiterated Janet.

Margaret's face was by this time the colour of the crimson boards of
the volume in her hand, but she replied at once: