"Hoot, laird! nae offence!" returned Mrs Catanach. "It was yer ain
wyte (blame). What gart ye stan' glowerin' at a body that gait,
ohn telled (without telling) them 'at ye was there?"

"I thocht ye was luikin' whaur ye cam frae," returned the man in
tones apologetic and hesitating.

"'Deed I fash wi' nae sic freits," said Mrs Catanach.

"Sae lang's ye ken whaur ye're gaein' till," suggested the man

"Toots! I fash as little wi' that either, and ken jist as muckle
about the tane as the tither," she answered with a low oily guttural
laugh of contemptuous pity.

"I ken mair nor that mysel', but no muckle," said the man. "I dinna
ken whaur I cam frae, and I dinna ken whaur I'm gaun till; but I
ken 'at I'm gaun whaur I cam frae. That stan's to rizzon, ye see;
but they telled me 'at ye kenned a' about whaur we a' cam frae."

"Deil a bit o' 't!" persisted Mrs Catanach, in tones of repudiation.
"What care I whaur I cam frae, sae lang's--"

"Sae lang's what, gien ye please?" pleaded the man, with a childlike
entreaty in his voice.

"Weel--gien ye wull hae't--sae lang's I cam frae my mither,"
said the woman, looking down on the inquirer with a vulgar laugh.