Mitchell, I am confident my father would
not have allowed her to teach me. But Kirsty did not speak a word of
Scotch, and although her English was a little broken and odd, being
formed somewhat after Gaelic idioms, her tone was pure and her phrases
were refined. The matter was very speedily settled between them.
"And if you want to beat him, Kirsty, you can beat him in Gaelic, and
then he won't feel it," said my father, trying after a joke, which was
no common occurrence with him, whereupon Kirsty and I laughed in great
contentment.
The fact was, Kirsty had come to the manse with my mother, and my
father was attached to her for the sake of his wife as well as for her
own, and Kirsty would have died for the minister or any one of his
boys. All the devotion a Highland woman has for the chief of her clan,
Kirsty had for my father, not to mention the reverence due to the
minister.
After a little chat about the cows and the calves, my father rose,
saying--
"Then I'll just make him over to you, Kirsty. Do you think you can
manage without letting it interfere with your work, though?"
"Oh yes, sir--well that! I shall soon have him reading to me while I'm
busy about. If he doesn't know the word, he can spell it, and then I
shall know it--at least if it's not longer than Hawkie's tail."
Hawkie was a fine milker, with a bad temper, and a comically short
tail.
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