Erchie pushed back his chair and made an explanation. “Tucks is no’ the go naither, mistress,” said he, “and if ye kent whit the laundries were in Gleska ye wadna wonder at it. A laundry’s a place whaur they’ll no’ stand ony o’ yer tucks, or ony nonsense o’ that kind. Tucks wad spoil the teeth o’ the curry-combs they use in the laundry for scoorin’ the cuffs and collars; they’re no’ gaun awa’ to waste the vitriol they use for bleachin’ on a wheen tucks. They couldna dae’t at the money; it’s only threepence ha’penny a shirt, ye ken, and oot o’ that they hae to pay for the machines that tak’s the buttons aff, and the button-hole bursters--that’s a tred by itsel’. No, mem, tucked breists are oot o’ date; ye’ll no’ see such a thing in Gleska; I’m shair puir Macphee himsel’ hadna ane. The man’s as weel buried as if we had a’ put on the kilts, and had a piper in front playin’ ‘Lochaber no More.’ If ye’ll no believe us, Duffy can show ye the receipted accoonts for the undertaker and the lair; can ye no’, Duffy?” “Smert!” said Duffy, But the cousin’s wife was not at all anxious to see accounts of any kind, so she became more prostrate with annoyance and grief than ever. “Oot Fintry way,” said Erchie, exasperated, “it’s a’ richt to keep up tucked shirt-breists, and crape, and weepers, and mort-cloths, and the like, for there canna be an awfu’ lot o’ gaiety in the place, but we have aye plenty o’ ither things to amuse us in Gleska. There’s the Kelvingrove Museum, and the Wax-works. If ye’re no’ pleased wi’ the wye Macphee was buried, ye needna gie us the chance again wi’ ony o’ yer freen’s.” The cousin’s wife addressed herself to her husband. “Whit was yon ye were gaun to ask?” she said to him. He got very red, and shifted uneasily in his chair. “Me!” said he, “I forget.” “No ye dinna; ye mind fine.” “Och, it’s a’ richt. Are we no’ haein’ a fine time,” protested the husband. “No, nor a’ richt, Rubbert Grant.” She turned to the others, “Whit my man was gaun to ask, if he wasna such a sumph, was whether oor kizzen hadna ony money put by him.” “If ye kent him better, ye wadna need to ask,” said Duffy. “He was a cheery chap,” said Jinnet. “But was he no’ in the Shepherds, or the Oddfellows, or the Masons, or onything that wye?” “No, nor in the Good Templars nor the Rechabites,” said Erchie. “The only thing the puir sowl was ever in was the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults.” “Did I no’ tell ye?” said her husband. “Good-bye and thenky the noo,” said the cousin’s wife, as she went down the stair. “I’ve spent a rale nice day.” “It’s the only thing ye did spend,” said Erchie when she was out of hearing. “Funerals are managed gey chape in Fintry.” “Oh ye rascal, ye’ve the sherp tongue!” said Jinnet. “Ay, and there’s some needs it! A flet fit, too, but a warm hert,” said Erchie. V THE PRODIGAL SON