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. ‘An’ nae suner’s my leddy deid nor _her_ man follows her!’ says she. ‘An’ what do ye mak o’ that?’ says she. ‘Ay, what do ye mak o’ that?’ says I till her again. ‘Ow! what ken I?’ says she, wi’ anither ill leuk; an’ wi’ that she leuch an’ turned awa, but turned back again or she wan to the door, an’ says she--‘Maybe ye didna ken ’at she was broucht to bed hersel’ aboot a sax ooks ago?’--‘Puir leddy!’ said I, thinkin’ mair o’ her evil report nor o’ the pains o’ childbirth. ‘Ay,’ says she, wi’ a deevilich kin’ o’ a lauch, like in spite o’ hersel’, ‘for the bairn’s deid, they tell me--as bonny a lad-bairn as ye wad see, jist ooncoamon! An’ whaur div ye think she had her doon-lying? Jist at Lossie Hoose!’ Wi’ that she was oot at the door wi’ a swag o’ her tail, an’ doon the stair to Jean again. I was jist at ane mair wi’ anger at mysel’ an’ scunner at her, an’ in twa min’s to gang efter her an’ turn her oot o’ the hoose, her an’ Jean thegither. I could hear her snicherin’ till hersel’ as she gaed doon the stair. My verra stamack turned at the poozhonous ted. “I canna say what was true or what was fause i’ the scandal o’ her tale, nor what for she tuik the trouble to cairry ’t to me, but it sune cam to be said ’at the yoong laird was but half-wittet as weel ’s humpit, an’ ’at his mither cudna bide him. An’ certain it was ’at the puir wee chap cud as little bide his mither. Gien she cam near him ohn luikit for, they said, he wad gie a great skriech, and rin as fast as his wee weyver (_spider_) legs cud wag aneth the wecht o’ ’s humpie--an’ whiles her after him wi’ onything she cud lay her han’ upo’, they said--but I kenna. Ony gait, the widow hersel’ grew waur and waur i’ the temper, an’ I misdoobt me sair was gey hard upo’ the puir wee objeck--fell cruel til ’m, they said--till at len’th, as a’ body kens, he forhooit (_forsook_) the hoose a’thegither. An’ puttin’ this an’ that thegither, for I hear a hantle said ’at I say na ower again, it seems to me ’at her first scunner at her puir misformt bairn, wha they say was humpit whan he was born an’ maist cost her her life to get lowst o’ him-- her scunner at ’im ’s been growin’ an’ growin’ till it’s grown to doonricht hate.” “It’s an awfu’ thing ’at ye say, mem, an’ I doobt it’s ower true. But hoo _can_ a mither hate her ain bairn?” said Malcolm.