``How do you, Janet?''
``Thank ye, good sir,'' answered my old friend,
without looking at me; ``but ye might as weel say
Mrs MacEvoy, for she is na a'body's Shanet---
umph.''
``You must be my Janet, though, for all that---
have you forgot me?---Do you not remember
Chrystal Croftangry?''
The light, kind-hearted creature threw her napkin
into the open door, skipped down the stair like
a fairy, three steps at once, seized me by the hands,
---both hands,---jumped up, and actually kissed me.
I was a little ashamed; but what swain, of somewhere
inclining to sixty, could resist the advances
of a fair contemporary? So we allowed the full
degree of kindness to the meeting,---_honi soit qui
mal y pense_,---and then Janet entered instantly
upon business. ``An' yell gae in, man, and see
your auld lodgings, nae doubt, and Shanet will pay
ye the fifteen shillings of change that ye ran away
without, and without bidding Shanet good day.
But never mind,'' (nodding good-humouredly,)
``Shanet saw you were carried for the time.''
By this time we were in my old quarters, and
Janet, with her bottle of cordial in one hand and
the glass in the other, had forced on me a dram of
usquebaugh, distilled with saffron and other herbs,
after some old-fashioned Highland receipt.
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