After an hour had passed, Mrs.Murray inquired as to the nourishment Kirsty had given her brother.
"Indeed, he will not be taking anything whatever," said Kirsty, in a vexed tone.

"And it is no matter what I will be giving him." "And what does he like, Kirsty ?" "Indeed, he will be taking anything when he is not seek, and he is that fond of buckwheat pancakes and pork gravy with maple syrup over them, but would he look at it! And I made him new porridge to-night, but he would not touch them." "Did you try him with gruel, Kirsty ?" "Mercy me, and is it Macdonald Dubh and gruel?
He would be flinging the 'feushionless' stuff out of the window." "But I am sure it would be good for him if he could be persuaded to try it.

I should like to try him." "Indeed, and you may try.

It will be easy enough, for the porridge are still in the pot." Kirsty took the pot from the bench, with the remains of the porridge that had been made for supper still in it, set it on the fire, and pouring some water in it, began to stir it vigorously.

It was thick and slimy, and altogether a most repulsive-looking mixture, and Mrs.Murray no longer wondered at Macdonald Dubh's distaste for gruel.
"I think I will make some fresh, if you will let me, Kirsty--in the way I make it for the minister, you know." Kirsty, by this time, had completely surrendered to Mrs.Murray's guidance, and producing the oatmeal, allowed her to have her way; so that when Macdonald awoke he found Mrs.Murray standing beside him with a bowl of the nicest gruel and a slice of thin dry toast.
He greeted the minister's wife with grave courtesy, drank the gruel, and then lay down again to sleep.
"Will you look at that now ?" said Kirsty, amazed at Macdonald Dubh's forbearance.