"Hoots, woman!" he said, "ye wad hae me a shargar (A SKIN-AND-BONE
CALF)! That's no soor milk!"

"I'm vexed it's no to yer taste, laird!" returned Grizzie coolly,
"but I hae nane better."

"Ye tellt me ye had soor milk," said the laird--without a particle
of offence, rather in the tone of apology for having by mistake
made away with something too good for him.

"Weel, laird," replied Grizzie, "it's naething but the guidman's
milk; an' gien ye dinna ken what's guid for ye at your time o'
life, it's weel there sud be anither 'at does. What has a man o'
your 'ears to du drinkin' soor milk--eneuch to turn a' soor
thegither i' the inside o' ye! It's true I win' ye weel a sma'
bairn i' my leddy's airms--

"Ye may weel du that!" interrupted her mistress.

"I wasna weel intil my teens, though, my leddy!" returned Grizzie.
"An' I'm sure," she added, in revenge for the insinuation as to her
age, "it wad ill become ony wuman to grudge a man o' the laird's
stan'in a drap o' the best milk in's ain cellar!"

"Who spoke of refusing it to him?" said his mother.

"Ye spak yersel' sic an' siclike," answered Grizzie.

"Hoots, Grizzie! haud yer tongue, my wuman," said the laird, in the
gentlest tone, yet with reproof in it. "Ye ken weel it's no my