“You have not asked after any of your Glenfern friends,” said Mr. Douglas, hoping to touch a more sympathetic chord.

“Time eneugh.  Wull ye let me draw my breath, man?  Fowk canna say awthing at ance.  An’ ye bute to hae an Inglish wife tu; a Scotch lass wad nae serr ye.  An’ ye’re wean, I’se warran’, it’s ane o’ the warld’s wonders; it’s been unco lang o’ cummin—­he, he!”

“He has begun life under very melancholy auspices, poor fellow!” said Mr. Douglas, in allusion to his father’s death.

“An’ wha’s faut was that?  I ne’er heard tell the like o’t; to hae the bairn kirsened an’ its grandfather deein!  But fowk are naither born, nor kirsened, nor do they wad or dee as they used to du—–­awthing’s changed.”

“You must, indeed, have witnessed many changes,” observed Mr. Douglas, rather at a loss how to utter anything of a conciliatory nature.

“Changes!—­weel a wat, I sometimes wonder if it’s the same warld, an’ if it’s my ain heed that’s upon my shoothers.”

“But with these changes you must also have seen many improvements?” said Mary, in a tone of diffidence.

“Impruvements!” turning sharply round upon her; “what ken ye about impruvements, bairn?  A bony impruvement or ens no, to see tyleyors and sclaters leavin whar I mind jewks an yerls.  An’ that great glowrin’ new toon there”—­pointing out of her windows—­“whar I used to sit an’ luck oot at bonny green parks, and see the coos milket, and the bits o’ bairnies rowin’ an’ tummlin,’ an’ the lasses trampin i’ their tubs—­what see I noo, but stane an’ lime, an’ stoor’ an’ dirt, an’ idle cheels, an’ dinket-oot madams prancin’.  Impruvements, indeed!”

Mary found she was not likely to advance her uncle’s fortune by the judiciousness of her remarks, therefore prudently resolved to hazard no more.  Mr. Douglas, who was more au fait to the prejudices of old age, and who was always amused with her bitter remarks when they did not touch himself, encouraged her to continue the conversation by some observation on the prevailing manners.

“Mainers!” repeated she, with a contemptuous laugh, “what caw ye mainers noo, for I dinna ken?  Ilk ane gangs bang in till their neebor’s hoose, and bang oot o’t as it war a chynge-hoose; an’ as for the maister o’t, he’s no o’ sae muckle vaalu as tho flunky ahynt his chyre.  I’ my grandfather’s time, as I hae heard him tell, ilka maister o’ a faamily had his ain sate in his ain hoose aye, an’ sat wi’ his hat on his heed afore the best o’ the land, an’ had his ain dish, an’ was aye helpit first, an’ keepit up his owthority as a man sude du.  Paurents war paurents then; bairnes dardna set up their gabs afore them than as they du noo.  They ne’er presumed to say their heeds war their ain i’ thae days—­wife an’ servants, reteeners an’ childer, aw trummelt i’ the presence o’ their heed.”

Here a long pinch of snuff caused a pause in the old lady’s harangue; but after having duly wiped her nose with her coloured handkerchief, and shook off all the particles that might be presumed to have lodged upon her cardinal, she resumed—­