"It's a sair peety, doobtless," she said, "'at there sud be sae mony
drouthie thrapples i' the kingdom, sir; but drouth maun drink, an'
ye ken, sir, gien it war hauden frae them, they wad but see deils
an' cut their throts."

"They're like to see deils ony gait er' lang," retorted the
minister, relapsing into the vernacular for a moment.

"Ow, deed maybe, sir! but e'en the deils themsels war justifeed i'
their objection to bein' committed to their ain company afore their
time."

Mr. Sclater could not help smiling at the woman's readiness, and
that was a point gained by her. An acquaintance with Scripture goes
far with a Scotch ecclesiastic. Besides, the man had a redeeming
sense of humour, though he did not know how to prize it, not
believing it a gift of God.

"It's true, my woman," he answered. "Ay! it said something for them,
deils 'at they war, 'at they preferred the swine. But even the
swine cudna bide them!"

Encouraged by the condescension of the remark, but disinclined to
follow the path of reflection it indicated, Mistress Croale ventured
a little farther upon her own.

"Ye see, sir," she said, "as lang's there's whusky, it wull tak the
throt-ro'd. It's the naitral w'y o' 't, ye see, to rin doon, an'
it's no mainner o' use gangin' again natur. Sae, allooin' the thing
maun be, ye'll hae till alloo likewise, an' it's a trouth I'm