“The right hand of fellowship to your honour then,” quoth the gardener, with as much alacrity as his hard features were capable of expressing, and, as if to show that his goodwill did not rest on words, he plucked forth a huge horn snuff-box, or mull, as he called it, and proffered me a pinch with a most fraternal grin.

Having accepted his courtesy, I asked him if he had been long a domestic at Osbaldistone Hall?

“I have been fighting with wild beasts at Ephesus,” said he, looking towards the building, “for the best part of these four-and-twenty years, as sure as my name’s Andrew Fairservice.”

“But, my excellent friend Andrew Fairservice, if your religion and your temperance are so much offended by Roman rituals and southern hospitality, it seems to me that you must have been putting yourself to an unnecessary penance all this while, and that you might have found a service where they eat less, and are more orthodox in their worship. I daresay it cannot be want of skill which prevented your being placed more to your satisfaction.”

“It disna become me to speak to the point of my qualifications,” said Andrew, looking round him with great complacency; “but nae doubt I should understand my trade of horticulture, seeing I was bred in the parish of Dreepdaily, where they raise lang-kale under glass, and force the early nettles for their spring kale.—And, to speak truth, I hae been flitting every term these four-and-twenty years; but when the time comes, there’s aye something to saw that I would like to see sawn,—or something to maw that I would like to see mawn,—or something to ripe that I would like to see ripen,—and sae I e’en daiker on wi’ the family frae year’s end to year’s end. And I wad say for certain, that I am gaun to quit at Cannlemas, only I was just as positive on it twenty years syne, and I find mysell still turning up the mouls here, for a’ that. Forbye that, to tell your honour the even-down truth, there’s nae better place ever offered to Andrew. But if your honour wad wush me to ony place where I wad hear pure doctrine, and hae a free cow’s grass, and a cot, and a yard, and mair than ten punds of annual fee, and where there’s nae leddy about the town to count the apples, I’se hold mysell muckle indebted t’ye.”

“Bravo, Andrew; I perceive you’ll lose no preferment for want of asking patronage.”

“I canna see what for I should,” replied Andrew; “it’s no a generation to wait till ane’s worth’s discovered, I trow.”

“But you are no friend, I observe, to the ladies.”

“Na, by my troth, I keep up the first gardener’s quarrel to them. They’re fasheous bargains—aye crying for apricocks, pears, plums, and apples, summer and winter, without distinction o’ seasons; but we hae nae slices o’ the spare rib here, be praised for’t! except auld Martha, and she’s weel eneugh pleased wi’ the freedom o’ the berrry-bushes to her sister’s weans, when they come to drink tea in a holiday in the housekeeper’s room, and wi’ a wheen codlings now and then for her ain private supper.”

“You forget your young mistress.”

“What mistress do I forget?—whae’s that?”

“Your young mistress, Miss Vernon.”

“What! the lassie Vernon?—She’s nae mistress o’ mine, man. I wish she was her ain mistress; and I wish she mayna be some other body’s mistress or it’s lang—She’s a wild slip that.”

“Indeed!” said I, more interested than I cared to own to myself, or to show to the fellow—“why, Andrew, you know all the secrets of this family.”

“If I ken them, I can keep them,” said Andrew; “they winna work in my wame like barm in a barrel, I’se warrant ye. Miss Die is—but it’s neither beef nor brose o’ mine.”