mair nor o' your boady! Sae ye see, sir, we're like John Sprat an'
his wife:--ye'll ken the bairns' say aboot them?"

"Ay, fine that," replied Donal. "Ye couldna weel be better fittit."

"God grant it!" she said. "But we wad fit better yet gien I had but
a wheen mair brains."

"The Lord kenned what brains ye had whan he broucht ye thegither,"
said Donal.

"Ye never uttert a truer word," replied the cobbler. "Gien the Lord
be content wi' the brains he's gien ye, an' I be content wi' the
brains ye gie me, what richt hae ye to be discontentit wi' the
brains ye hae, Doory?--answer me that. But I s' come to the
table.--Wud ye alloo me to speir efter yer name, sir?"

"My name 's Donal Grant," replied Donal.

"I thank ye, sir, an' I'll haud it in respec'," returned the
cobbler. "Maister Grant, wull ye ask a blessin'?"

"I wad raither j'in i' your askin'," replied Donal.

The cobbler said a little prayer, and then they began to eat--first
of oat-cakes, baked by the old woman, then of loaf-breid, as they
called it.

"I'm sorry I hae nae jeally or jam to set afore ye, sir," said
Doory, "we're but semple fowk, ye see--content to haud oor earthly