' Weel, pairtly
'at I was ta'en by surprise like, an' pairtly 'at I wasna sae auld
as I am noo, an' pairtly that I was keerious to hear--ill 'at
I likit her--what neist the wuman wad say, I did as I ouchtna,
an' turned an' gaed up the stair, an' loot her follow me. Whan she
cam' in, she pat tu the door ahint her, an' turnt to me, an' said
--says she: 'An wha 's deid forbye, think ye?'--'I hae hard o'
naebody,' I answered. 'Wha but the laird o' Gersefell!' says she.
'I'm sorry to hear that, honest ma!' says I; for a'body likit Mr
Stewart. 'An' what think ye o' 't?' says she, wi' a runklin o' her
broos, an' a shak o' her heid, an' a settin o' her roon' nieves upo'
the fat hips o' her. 'Think o' 't?' says I ; 'what sud I think o'
't, but that it's the wull o' Providence?' Wi' that she leuch till
she wabblet a' ower like cauld skink, an' says she--'Weel, that's
jist what it is no, an' that lat me tell ye, Miss Horn!' I glowert
at her, maist frichtit into believin' she was the witch fowk ca'd
her. 'Wha's son 's the hump backit cratur',' says she, ''at comes
in i' the gig whiles wi' the groom lad, think ye?'--'Wha's but
the puir man's 'at 's deid?' says I. 'Deil a bit o' 't!' says she,
'an' I beg yer pardon for mentionin' o' him,' says she. An' syne
she screwt up her mou', an' cam closs up till me--for I wadna sit
doon mysel', an' less wad I bid her, an' was sorry eneuch by this
time 'at I had broucht her up the stair--an' says she, layin' her
han' upo' my airm wi' a clap, as gien her an' me was to be freen's
upo' sic a gran' foondation o' dirt as that!--says she, makin' a
laich toot moot o' 't,--'He's Lord Lossie's!' says she, an' maks
a face 'at micht hae turnt a cat sick--only by guid luck I had
nae feelin's.
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