Luckie Howden went on arranging and counting the pieces of crockery. 'Twall cups an' twall sacers, four bread plates, an' twa bowls. Ye'll find that a' richt, Miss Brown. An' here's the bits o' siller things,' producing the teapot, over which she passed her hand with a regretful stroking motion, 'It's gotten neither clure nor dint i' my haunds. A' siller say ye? An' weel I wat it's bonny. Aiblins it's no sae bricht an' glintin' as it ance was. "Yer goold an' yer siller are become dim, yer garments are moth-eaten," that's what the Prophet Ezekil said til back-slidin' Isril lang syne, an' it's true yet! Wae's me, Miss Brown! 'at the white raiment o' yer puir wanderin' brither, 'at we ance thocht sae clean an' white, suld be spotted wi' the flesh after a'! But what's been dune i' the secret chaumer sall be proclaimed on the house heads afore lang. My certie! but he's been the lad to draw iniquity wi' cart ropes! an' to sin wi' the high haund! But it's a' fand out at last, he'll be peuten til open shame, an' be nae mair a steward o' the gospel mysteries in Glen Effick!' [Illustration: "Ye'll find that a' richt, Miss Brown." Page 190.] 'I don't understand one word you say, Mrs. Howden,' cried Mary in open-eyed amazement. 'If our things are in your way you are perfectly right to bring them back, and it will not inconvenience us in the least to have them here. It was kind in you to give them house-room when we came to live in the village, and we are obliged to you for having taken such good care of them. But I don't understand what ground of offence my brother can have given you, or why you should speak of him in such extraordinary language.' 'I'm thinkin' ye'll hae to thole waur langidge nor that afore a's o'er, Miss Brown. An' aiblins ye ken mair nor ye wad like to let-on. I'm no yer judge, but we hae scripter for't, 'at refuges o' lees winna stand.' 'Think shame, woman!' cried Eppie, unable altogether to keep silence, though she still restrained herself, fearful of provoking a tempest and disturbing the sick man. 'An' what wad I think shame for? It's the ill doer 'at fears the ill word. I hae cleared my skirts this day. I shack the stour frae my very feet, an' I'm dune wi' the De'il an' a' his warks!' And shaking out the folds of her red cloak, with a stamp of either foot, she hobbled away. 'What does she mean, Eppie? And whatever it is, the rest of the people must think it too--Don't deny it, Eppie! you know all about it. I have seen so much as that in your face for several days. What is it?' 'It's naething ony sensible body wad heed. Just a wheen senseless havers. Ne'er fash yer thoomb, Miss Mary! It'll a' blaw ower.' Miss Mary was resolute, however, and would be told. She sat herself down on a stool beside Eppie, and between coaxing and sheer pertinacity she at last prevailed on the old woman to speak. They sat together for some time with their heads very close, conversing in whispers.