“Ae day, I cam upon her sittin’ by the ingleneuk i’ my ain kitchen, haudin’ a close an’ a laich confab wi’ Jean. I had Jean than, an’ hoo I hae keepit the hizzy, I hardly ken. I think it maun be that, haein’ nae feelin’s o’ my ain, I hae ower muckle regaird to ither fowk’s, an’ sae I never likit to pit her awa’ wi’oot doonricht provocation. But dinna ye lippen to Jean, Malcolm--na, na!--At that time, my cousin, Miss Grizel Cammell--my third cousin, she was--had come to bide wi’ me--a bonny yoong thing as ye wad see, but in sair ill health; an’ maybe she had het freits (_whims_), an’ maybe no, but she cudna bide to see the wuman Cat’nach aboot the place. An’ in verra trowth, she was to mysel’ like ane o’ thae ill-faured birds, I dinna min’ upo’ the name o’ them, ’at hings ower an airmy; for wharever there was onybody nae weel, or onybody deid, there was Bawby Cat’nach. I hae hard o’ creepin’ things ’at veesits fowk ’at’s no weel--an’ Bawby was, an’ is, ane sic like! Sae I was angert at seein’ her colloguin’ wi’ Jean, an’ I cried Jean to me to the door o’ the kitchie. But wi’ that up jumps Bawby, an’ comin’ efter her, says to me--says she, ‘Eh, Miss Horn! there’s terrible news: Leddy Lossie’s deid;--she’s been three ooks deid!’--‘Weel,’ says I, ‘what’s sae terrible aboot that?’ For ye ken I never had ony feelin’s, an’ I cud see naething sae awfu’ aboot a body deein’ i’ the ord’nar’ w’y o natur’ like. ‘We’ll no miss her muckle doon here,’ says I, ‘for I never hard o’ her bein’ at the Hoose sin’ ever I can.’ ‘But that’s no a’,’ says she; ‘only I wad be laith to speyk aboot it i’ the transe (_passage_). Lat me up the stair wi’ ye, an’ I’ll tell ye mair.’ 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 man!’ 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