'Troth! he canna brak the bank--eh, Mr. Tamson?'

'He may give me a hint to make you withdraw your money, though, Mr.
MacGregor.'

'De'il care gin I do!' returned the weaver. 'I can mak' better o' 't
ony day.'

'But there's yer hoose an' kailyard,' suggested Peddie.

'They're ma ain!--a' ma ain! He canna lay 's finger on onything o'
mine but my servan' lass,' cried the weaver, slapping his
thigh-bone--for there was little else to slap.

Meg, at the moment, was taking her exit-glance. She went straight
to Miss Napier.

'Willie MacGregor's had eneuch, mem, an' a drappy ower.'

'Sen' Caumill doon to Mrs. MacGregor to say wi' my compliments that
she wad do weel to sen' for him,' was the response.

Meantime he grew more than troublesome. Ever on the outlook, when
sober, after the foibles of others, he laid himself open to endless
ridicule when in drink, which, to tell the truth, was a rare
occurrence. He was in the midst of a prophetic denunciation of the
vices of the nobility, and especially of Lord Rothie, when Meg,
entering the room, went quietly behind his chair and whispered:

'Maister MacGregor, there's a lassie come for ye.'