MACPHAIL.

Eh, I'm glad you think I'm quick.

MRS. GAYl.u.s.tRE.

Why?

MACPHAIL.

Because Ballocheevin--that's our place, you understand--Ballocheevin is enough to soften a lad's brain.

MRS. GAYl.u.s.tRE.

Then why hide your light at Ballocheevin?

MACPHAIL.

Well, the Macphails have lived there since eleven hundred and two.

MRS. GAYl.u.s.tRE.

How romantic!

MACPHAIL.

So mother's just got out of the way of moving.

MRS. GAYl.u.s.tRE.

Charming attachment to an old home.

MACPHAIL.

Aye, it's old. It hasn't been papered and done up since Robert Bruce stayed with us.

MRS. GAYl.u.s.tRE.

Robert Bruce!

MACPHAIL.

Aye--just from a Sat.u.r.day till Monday, I'm thinking.

MRS. GAYl.u.s.tRE.

There must be a legend attached to every stone of Ballocheevin.

MACPHAIL.

Aye, it's interesting--but it requires papering. I am so tired of Ballocheevin.

MRS. GAYl.u.s.tRE.

But you love the rugged country, the vast overwhelming hills, and the placid lochs?

MACPHAIL.

Mother's been telling you that.

MRS. GAYl.u.s.tRE.

Isn't it true?

MACPHAIL.

Eh, I am just weary of my native scenery.

MRS. GAYl.u.s.tRE.

But what about the misty chasms of Ben-Muchty?

MACPHAIL.

That's an awfully damp place. That's where I caught my bad cold.

MRS. GAYl.u.s.tRE.

And the gray sh.o.r.e of Loch-na-Doich? Your mother says you adore it.

MACPHAIL.

Eh, I am sick of Loch-na-Doich.

MRS. GAYl.u.s.tRE.

And your feet don't ache to press the heather?

MACPHAIL.

It's when they're _on_ the heather my feet ache. It's poor walking, heather.

MRS. GAYl.u.s.tRE.

Then you don't watch the sun rise from the jagged summit of Ben-na-fechan?

MACPHAIL.

[Cunningly.] Eh, but I do though, every day when I'm at home.