"See, there," said Mrs Anderson, either not heeding, or not hearing John's remark. "See, there," she said, holding up a fragment of one of the broken vessels, "there's the end o' my bonny cheeny jug, that I was sae vogie o', and that hadna its neebor in braid Scotland." And a tear glistened in the eye of the susceptible mourner, as she contemplated the melancholy remains, and recalled to memory the departed splendours of the ill-fated tankard. Quietly dashing, however, the tear of sorrow aside, both her person and spirit assumed the lofty attitude of determined vengeance; and, "_she'll_ rue this," she now went on, "if there be ony law or justice in the kingdom. It'll be a dear jug to _her_, or my name's no what it is." Equally indignant with his wife at the assault and battery committed by the Callenders, but less talkative, John sat quietly ruminating on the events of the evening, and, anon, still continuing to raise his hand, at intervals, to his mangled countenance. With the same taciturnity, he subsequently assisted Mrs Anderson to throw the collected fragments of the broken dishes into a hamper, and to carry and deposit said hamper in an adjoining closet, where, it was determined, they should be carefully kept, as evidence of the extent of the damage which had been sustained. In the meantime, neither Mrs Thomas Callender nor Mr Thomas Callender felt by any means at ease respecting the crockery catastrophe. Although feeling that it was a mere casualty of war, and an unforeseen and unpremeditated result of a fair and equal contest, they yet could not help entertaining some vague apprehension for the consequences. They felt, in short, that it might be made a question whether they were not liable for the damage done, seeing that they had intruded themselves into their neighbour's house, where they had no right to go. It was under some such awkward fear as this that Mr Callender, who had also obtained an evasive account of the cause of quarrel, said, with an unusually long and grave face to his wife, on their gaining their own house, and holding at the same time a handkerchief to his still bleeding and now greatly swollen proboscis-- "Yon was a deevil o' a stramash, Mirran. I never heard the like o't. It was awfu. I think I hear the noise o' the crashin' plates and bowls in my lugs yet." "Deil may care! Let them tak it!" replied Mrs Callender, endeavouring to assume a disregard of consequences which she was evidently very far from feeling. "She was aye owre vain o' her crockery; so that better couldna happen her." "Ay," replied her husband; "but yon smashing o't was rather a serious business." "It was just music to my lugs, then," said Mrs Callender, boldly. "Maybe," rejoined her husband, "but I doot we'll hae to pay the piper. They'll try't ony way, I'm jalousin."