"I got it frae Maister Sutherlan', I reckon."

Janet's first response was an inverted whistle; her next, another
question:

"Maister Sutherlan'! wha's that o't?"

"Hoot, lass!" interposed David, "ye ken weel aneuch. It's the new
tutor lad, up at the hoose; a fine, douce, honest chield, an'
weel-faured, forby. Lat's see the bit beuky, lassie."

Margaret handed it to her father.

"Col-e-ridge's Poems," read David, with some difficulty.

"Tak' it hame direckly," said Janet.

"Na, na," said David; "a' the apples o' the tree o' knowledge are no
stappit wi sut an stew; an' gin this ane be, she'll sune ken by the
taste o't what's comin'. It's no muckle o' an ill beuk 'at ye'll
read, Maggy, my doo."

"Guid preserve's, man! I'm no sayin' it's an ill beuk. But it's no
richt to mak appintments wi' stranger lads i' the wud sae ear' i'
the mornin'. Is't noo, yersel, Meg?"

"Mither! mither!" said Margaret, and her eyes flashed through the
watery veil that tried to hide them, "hoo can ye? Ye ken yersel I
had nae appintment wi' him or ony man."