“Why, ‘there’s neea accoontin’ for teeast,’ as t’ aud woman said when she kissed ’er coo, bud ah reckon you’ve tried it, if t’ truth wer’ knoan; an’ y’ see, it isn’t ivverybody,” with another twinkle, “’at ez eeather talents or passevearance te mak’ a smooker. Like monny other clever things, its nobbut sum ’at ez t’ gift te deea ’em. There’s Jim Raspin, noo; he’s been scrapin’ away on a fiddle for a twelvemonth, an’ when he’s deean ’is best, he can nobbut mak’ a grumplin’ noise like a pig iv a fit. Ah can’t deea mitch, but ah can clip a hedge an’ smook a pipe, an’ that’s better then being a Jack ov all trayds an’ maister o’ neean.” Here the old man blew out a long cloud of curling smoke, and laying down his short pipe by the side of him, he gave a low chuckle of satisfaction at having come out triumphant from an attack on the only weakness of which he could be convicted. “Ah see,” said he, “’at you’ve getten Lucy yam ageean, an’ a feyn smart wench she is. They say ‘feyn feathers mak’s feyn bods,’ but she’s a bonny bod i’ grey roosset, an’ depends for her prattiness mair on ’er feeace an’ manners then on ’er cleease.” “Yes,” said Natty, well pleased with this genuine compliment on his darling; “Lucy is a fine lass and a good ’un, and makes the old house, which has been gloomy enough, as bright as sunshine.” “God bless ’er,” said the old man, warmly; “an’ if she gets t’ grace o’ God she’ll be prattier still. There’s neea beauty like religion, Natty, an’ t’ robe o’ righteousness sets off a cotton goon as mitch as silk an’ velvet.” “Hey, that’s true enough,” said Nathan Blyth; “an’ Lucy’s all right on that point. She isn’t a stranger to religion. She loves her Bible and her Saviour, and her conduct is all that heart can wish.” “Ah’s waint an’ glad to hear it,” said Adam. “Meeast o’ d’ young lasses noo-a-days seeam to me te mind nowt but falderals an’ ribbins. They cover their backs wi’ tinsel an’ fill their brains wi’ caff till they leeak like moontebanks, an’ their heeads is as soft as a feather bed. ‘Mary i’ the dairy Wad fain be a fairy, Wi’ wings an’ a kirtle o’ green; Mary spoils ’er butter, Puts t’ good wife in a flutter, A lazy good-for-nothing quean. Silly, silly Mary! Bid good-bye te the fairy, Leeak te the butter an’ the cheese; Be quick an’ ’arn the siller. Marry Matt the Miller, Then live as happy as you pleease.’” “Who’s going to marry Matt, the miller, I wonder, Adam Olliver?” said Lucy Blyth, suddenly peeping over her father’s shoulder by the garden gate. “Odd’s bobs,” said the startled hedger; “‘you come all at yance,’ as t’ man said when t’ sack o’ floor dropt on his nob. Why, Lucy, me’ lass, is it you? Ah’s waint an’ glad to see yer’ bonny feeace ageean. Come in a minnit. Judy! Judy! Here’s somebody come ’at it’ll deea your and een good te leeak at.”