digging, drew himself up as straight as he could, and, leaning on his spade, went on, as if addressing his congregation of cabbages over the book-board of a pulpit. And now his muttering took, to the ears of Cosmo, an indistinct shape like this: “Wha cares for an auld man like me? I kenna what for there sud be auld men made! The banes o’ me micht melt i’ the inside o’ me, an’ never a sowl alive du mair for me nor berry me to get rid o’ the stink! No ’at I’m that dooms auld i’ mysel’ them ’at wad hae my place wad hae me!” Here was a chance for him, Cosmo thought; for at least here was a fellow-countryman. He went along the hedge therefore until he found a place where he could get through, and approached the man, who had by this time resumed his work, though after a listless fashion, turning over spadeful after spadeful, as if neither he nor the cabbages cared much, and all would be in good time if done by the end of the world. As he came nearer, Cosmo read peevishness and ill-temper in every line of his countryman’s countenance, yet he approached him with confidence, for Scotchmen out of their own country are of good report for hospitality to each other. “Hoo’s a’ wi’ ye?” he cried, sending his mother-tongue as a pursuivant in advance. “Wha’s speirin? an’ what richt hae ye to speir?” returned the old man in an angry voice, and lifting himself quickly, though with an aching sigh, looked at him with hard blue eyes. “A countryman o’ yer ain,” answered Cosmo. “Mony ane’s that ’at’s naething the better nor the walcomer. Gie an accoont o’ yersel’, or the doags’ll be lowsed upo’ ye here in a jiffey. Haith, this is no the place for lan’loupers!” “Hae ye been lang aboot the place?” asked Cosmo. “Langer nor ye’re like to be, I’m thinkin’, gien ye keep na the ceeviler tongue i’ yer heid, my man--Whaur come ye frae?” The old man had dropt his spade; Cosmo took it up, and began to dig. “Lay doon that spaud,” cried its owner, and would have taken it from him, but Cosmo delayed rendition. “Hoot, man!” he said, “I wad but lat ye see I’m nae lan’louper, an’ can weel han’le a spaud. Stan’ ye by a bit, an’ rist yer banes, till I caw throu’ a trifle o’ yer wark.” “An’ what du ye expec’ to come o’ that? Ye’re efter something, as sure ’s the deevil at the back yett, though ye’re nae freely sae sure to win at it.” “What I expec’, it wad be ill to say; but what I dinna expec’ is to be traitit like a vaggabon. Come, I’ll gie ye a guid hoor’s wark for a place to wash mysel’, an’ put on a clean sark.” “Hae ye the sark?” “I _hae_ ’t here i’ my bag.” “An’ what du ye want to put on a clean sark for? What’ll ye du whan ye hae ’t on?” “Gie ye anither hoor’s wark for the heel o’ a loaf an’ a drink o’ watter.” “Ye’ll be wantin’ to be taen on, I s’ wad (_wager_) ye a worm!” “Gien ye cud gie me a day’s wark, or maybe twa,--” began Cosmo, thinking how much rather he would fall in with Lady Joan about the garden than go up to the house.