It was evening when Mr Henry Morton perceived an old woman, wrapped in
her tartan plaid, supported by a stout, stupid-looking fellow, in
hoddin-grey, approach the house of Milnwood. Old Mause made her courtesy,
but Cuddie took the lead in addressing Morton. Indeed, he had previously
stipulated with his mother that he was to manage matters his own way; for
though he readily allowed his general inferiority of understanding, and
filially submitted to the guidance of his mother on most ordinary
occasions, yet he said, "For getting a service, or getting forward in the
warld, he could somegate gar the wee pickle sense he had gang muckle
farther than hers, though she could crack like ony minister o' them a'."

Accordingly, he thus opened the conversation with young Morton: "A braw
night this for the rye, your honour; the west park will be breering
bravely this e'en."

"I do not doubt it, Cuddie; but what can have brought your mother--this
is your mother, is it not?" (Cuddie nodded.) "What can have brought your
mother and you down the water so late?"

"Troth, stir, just what gars the auld wives trot--neshessity, stir--I'm
seeking for service, stir."

"For service, Cuddie, and at this time of the year? how comes that?"

Mause could forbear no longer. Proud alike of her cause and her
sufferings, she commenced with an affected humility of tone, "It has
pleased Heaven, an it like your honour, to distinguish us by a
visitation"--"Deil's in the wife and nae gude!" whispered Cuddie to his
mother, "an ye come out wi' your whiggery, they'll no daur open a door to