MÀIRI. Ailie Macdougall is a nice girl, and she hasn’t to go to service the whole year round like me. You see, they get so much money from the visitors that it keeps them and pays the rent. WIDOW. I’m sure it’s very good of the veesitors. But, Màiri, I wouldn’t be beholden to anybody. I wouldn’t take charity money, although I’m a poor widow, from any stranger, man or woman, however grand. No, no I couldn’t think of it. MÀIRI. You don’t understand. The money is payment for rent and attendance. We’ll let the house to visitors or take in lodgers, and charge maybe £12 a month with attendance. WIDOW. But we canna’ afford to slate the roof and get a piano and all the rest. You couldn’t ask gentry to stay here, Màiri. MÀIRI. You’re wrong there, mother. It’s fashionable for the city gentry to be staying now for holidays in “crofters’ cottages,” as they call them. They think houses like this are most artistic. They’re quite right too. This is a finer house than any in a city--not so grand, of course, but more sweet and homely in every way. The gentry are beginning to know that. Oh! mother, you would be surprised to see how they imitate us.... In the house where I was serving they had a spinning wheel and a three-legged pot in the drawing-room, cruisies in the dining-room, horn spoons and wooden ladles, and old plates and bowls here and there and everywhere as ornaments. They will pay a lot of money for things we will just be throwing away.... Maybe they’ll buy the old bagpipes. (_Laughs._) WIDOW. My grandfather’s bagpipes--the bagpipes of a Gaelic bard? No, no; I’d sooner starve than part with a thing in this house. Everything is covered with memories of my heart. MÀIRI. I spoke to the Postmaster about letting the house. I wanted to give you a surprise.... I’ll better be going to see Sandy’s wife. Now, mother, if the visitors call when I’m out, you’ll keep them speaking till I return. Don’t take the first offer. Ask the highest terms you can. (_Draws a knitted shawl over her head._) Now I’ll be off. WIDOW. Will you not be putting on your feather hat and your Sunday costume? The like o’ that hat is no’ to be seen in the glen. MÀIRI. The shawl is sweeter. If I put on my best hat, people would think I was getting too proud. (_Exit._)