"Whinnie" was full of curiosity over the Dominie's visit, and vexed
Marget sorely, to whom Geordie had told wondrous things in the
milk-house. "It canna be coals 'at he's wantin' frae the station,
for there's a fell puckle left."

"And it'll no be seed taties," she said, pursuing the principle of
exhaustion, "for he hes some Perthshire reds himsel'. I doot it's
somethin' wrang with Geordie," and Whinnie started on a new track.

"He's been playin' truant maybe. A' mind gettin' ma paiks for
birdnestin' masel. I'll wager that's the verra thing."

"Weel, yir wrang, Weelum," broke in Marget, Whinnie's wife, a tall,
silent woman, with a speaking face; "it's naither the ae thing nor
the ither, but something I've been prayin' for since Geordie was a
wee bairn. Clean yirsel and meet Domsie on the road, for nae man
deserves more honour in Drumtochty, naither laird nor farmer."

Conversation with us was a leisurely game, with slow movements and
many pauses, and it was our custom to handle all the pawns before we
brought the queen into action.

Domsie and Whinnie discussed the weather with much detail before
they came in sight of George, but it was clear that Domsie was
charged with something weighty, and even Whinnie felt that his own
treatment of the turnip crop was wanting in repose.

At last Domsie cleared his throat and looked at Marget, who had been
in and out, but ever within hearing.