SALTED WITH FIRE

BY

GEORGE MACDONALD




CHAPTER I


"Whaur are ye aff til this bonny mornin', Maggie, my doo?" said the
soutar, looking up from his work, and addressing his daughter as she stood
in the doorway with her shoes in her hand.

"Jist ower to Stanecross, wi' yer leave, father, to speir the mistress for
a goupin or twa o' chaff: yer bed aneth ye's grown unco hungry-like."

"Hoot, the bed's weel eneuch, lassie!"

"Na, it's onything but weel eneuch! It's my pairt to luik efter my ain
father, and see there be nae k-nots aither in his bed or his parritch."

"Ye're jist yer mither owre again, my lass!--Weel, I winna miss ye that
sair, for the minister 'ill be in this mornin'."

"Hoo ken ye that, father?"

"We didna gree vera weel last nicht."