“Weel, weel, leddies,” said the postmistress, “we’se sit down and crack about it.--Baby, bring ben the tea-water--Muckle obliged to ye for your cookies, Mrs. Shortcake--and we’ll steek the shop, and cry ben Baby, and take a hand at the cartes till the gudeman comes hame--and then we’ll try your braw veal sweetbread that ye were so kind as send me, Mrs. Heukbane.” “But winna ye first send awa Mr. Lovel’s letter?” said Mrs. Heukbane. “Troth I kenna wha to send wi’t till the gudeman comes hame, for auld Caxon tell’d me that Mr. Lovel stays a’ the day at Monkbarns--he’s in a high fever, wi’ pu’ing the laird and Sir Arthur out o’ the sea.” “Silly auld doited carles!” said Mrs. Shortcake; “what gar’d them gang to the douking in a night like yestreen!” “I was gi’en to understand it was auld Edie that saved them,” said Mrs. Heukbane--“Edie Ochiltree, the Blue-Gown, ye ken; and that he pu’d the hale three out of the auld fish-pound, for Monkbarns had threepit on them to gang in till’t to see the wark o’ the monks lang syne.” “Hout, lass, nonsense!” answered the postmistress; “I’ll tell ye, a’ about it, as Caxon tell’d it to me. Ye see, Sir Arthur and Miss Wardour, and Mr. Lovel, suld hae dined at Monkbarns”-- “But, Mrs. Mailsetter,” again interrupted Mrs. Heukbane, “will ye no be for sending awa this letter by express?--there’s our powny and our callant hae gane express for the office or now, and the powny hasna gane abune thirty mile the day;--Jock was sorting him up as I came ower by.” “Why, Mrs. Heukbane,” said the woman of letters, pursing up her mouth, “ye ken my gudeman likes to ride the expresses himsell--we maun gie our ain fish-guts to our ain sea-maws--it’s a red half-guinea to him every time he munts his mear; and I dare say he’ll be in sune--or I dare to say, it’s the same thing whether the gentleman gets the express this night or early next morning.” “Only that Mr. Lovel will be in town before the express gaes aff,” said Mrs. Heukbane; “and where are ye then, lass? But ye ken yere ain ways best.” “Weel, weel, Mrs. Heukbane,” answered Mrs. Mailsetter, a little out of humour, and even out of countenance, “I am sure I am never against being neighbour-like, and living and letting live, as they say; and since I hae been sic a fule as to show you the post-office order--ou, nae doubt, it maun be obeyed. But I’ll no need your callant, mony thanks to ye--I’ll send little Davie on your powny, and that will be just five-and-threepence to ilka ane o’ us, ye ken.” “Davie! the Lord help ye, the bairn’s no ten year auld; and, to be plain wi’ ye, our powny reists a bit, and it’s dooms sweer to the road, and naebody can manage him but our Jock.” “I’m sorry for that,” answered the postmistress, gravely; “it’s like we maun wait then till the gudeman comes hame, after a’--for I wadna like to be responsible in trusting the letter to sic a callant as Jock--our Davie belangs in a manner to the office.”