“Sir ’Ector—O Sir ’Ector, will ’ee look at oi! She’s ’ad me ’ere on me knees, a-scrubbin’ an’ a-sloshin’, this hower an’ more, she ’ave! On me marrer-bones, sir! Crool it be! Sir ’Ector, if you ’ave an ’eart, say a word for oi!” “William Thompson,” quoth my lady, “William Thompson—scrub.” “Sir ’Ector—say a word!” “Losh, Wully man, whaur’ll be the use? Ye ken vera weel ’tis no fau’t o’ mine. Ye ken vera weel I lo’e tae be hamely——” “Sir Hector—silence!” commanded my lady. “Eh, but, Rose, puir Wully an’ me are no used tae sic awfu’——” “Enough, sir!” “But, O lassie, ye’re fair washin’ me oot o’ hoose an’ hame——” “Then begone, sir, and leave us to finish.” “But Guid save us a’, d’ye no——” “Sir Hector,” cried my lady, with a flourish of her mop, “go!” Sir Hector went. Being in his small parlour, he glanced yearningly upon the unwashed crockery littering the table, from this to the dusty riding-boots upon the mantel-shelf and, sweeping a heterogeneous collection of small oddments from the elbow-chair to the floor, sat down with his feet among the long-dead ashes that cumbered the hearth, sighing for that spirit of homely comfort that was, even then, being washed and swept out of his ken. And thus Sir John found him, a desolate soul, huddled disconsolately over a cheerless hearth, his peruke over one mournful eye, the very picture of woe. “Hark till her, John!” quoth he dolefully. “O man, ’tis fair heartrendin’! Hark till yon brushin’ an’ scrubbin’!” “Ah, so you have a woman to clean the place for you at last, Hector!” “A wumman, d’ye say? Man, she’s no’ an ordinary wumman.... Wull ye hark till her!” “William Thompson,” cried a sweet, albeit stern voice, “this corner is not even wetted ... scrub it!” “Rose!” exclaimed Sir John. “Hersel’!” sighed Sir Hector. “Can ye no reason wi’ her, John, if ’tis only for the sake o’ puir Wully Tamson?” “Not for worlds, Hector!” “Then what’ll I dae, Johnnie?” “Come a-walking.” “Na, na; I’ve no’ the sperrit, John.” “But you’ve the legs, Hector.” So saying, Sir John straightened his old friend’s wig, reached him his hat and, taking his arm, led him out into the sunshine. “Whaur awa’, Johnnie?” “Well, I promised to visit Mr. Pym, the painter.” “Aye, I ken him fine; wi’ rod or gun there’s nane to equal him.” They found Mr. Pym busied in his garden, who, perceiving his visitors, laid by his spade and hastened to make them welcome; the better to perform which, he brought them into the house and vanished to find the wherewithal to refresh them, only to return empty-handed and disconsolate: “Sirs,” quoth he, “the devil is in it for my brandy is out!” And, being at a loss, he sought the aid of his daughter. “Elsie!” he called. “Elsie!” A jingle of keys, a light step and Mistress Pym appeared, her dainty, print gown girt about slender middle by a cincture whence hung reticule and housewifely keys, her face framed in snowy mob-cap and remarkable for a pair of handsome eyes.