"Hoo kent ye it was me, Mistress Catanach?" asked the lad.

"Kent it was you!" she repeated. "Gien there be but twa feet at
ance in ony street o' Portlossie, I'll tell ye whase heid's abune
them, an' my een steekit (closed)."

"Hoot! ye're a witch, Mistress Catanach!" said Malcolm merrily.

"That's as may be," she returned, rising, and nodding mysteriously;
"I hae tauld ye nae mair nor the trowth. But what garred ye whup's
a' oot o' oor nakit beds by five o'clock i' the mornin', this
mornin', man! That's no what ye're paid for."

"Deed, mem, it was jist a mistak' o' my puir daddy's. He had been
feart o' sleepin' ower lang, ye see, an' sae had waukit ower sune.
I was oot efter the fish mysel."

"But ye fired the gun 'gen the chap (before the stroke) o' five."

"Ow, ay! I fired the gun. The puir man wod hae bursten himsel' gien
I hadna."

"Deil gien he had bursten himsel'--the auld heelan' sholt!"
exclaimed Mrs Catanach spitefully.

"Ye sanna even sic words to my gran'father, Mrs Catanach," said
Malcolm with rebuke.

She laughed a strange laugh.