We. 'I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought-- In troth I'm like to greet!' She. “The sink drain isna recht.” We. 'An' it's oh! to win awa', awa', An' it's oh! to win awa'!' She. “I canna thole a box-bed!” We. 'Ay waukin O Waukin O an' weary. Sleep I can get nane, Ay waukin O!' She. “It's fair insultin' to rent a hoose wi' so few convenience.” We. 'An' I'm ower auld to fish ony mair, An' I hinna the chance to droon.' She. “The work is fair sickenin' i' this hoose, an' a' for ane puir body to do by her lane.” We. 'How can ye chant, ye little birds, An' I sae weary, fu' o' care?' She. “Ah, but that was a fine family I lived wi' in Glasgy; an' it's a wearifu' day's work I've had the day.” We. 'Oh why was I spared to cry, Wae's me!' She. “Why dinna they leave floo'rs i' the garden makin' a mess i' the hoose wi' 'em? It's not for the knowin' what they will be after next!” We. 'Oh, waly waly up the bank, And waly waly doon the brae!' Miss Grieve's plaints never grow less, though we are sometimes at a loss for appropriate quotations to match them. The poetic interpolations are introduced merely to show the general spirit of her conversation. They take the place of her sighs, which are by their nature unprintable. Many times each day she is wont to sink into one low chair, and, extending her feet in another, close her eyes and murmur undistinguishable plaints which come to us in a kind of rhythmic way. She has such a shaking right hand we have been obliged to give up coffee and have tea, as the former beverage became too unsettled on its journey from the kitchen to the breakfast-table. She says she kens she is a guid cook, though salf-praise is sma' racommendation (sma' as it is she will get nae ither!); but we have little opportunity to test her skill, as she prepares only our breakfasts of eggs and porridge. Visions of home-made goodies had danced before our eyes, but as the hall clock doesna strike she is unable to rise at any exact hour, and as the range draft is bad, and the coals too hard to batter up wi' a hatchet, we naturally have to content ourselves with the baker's loaf. And this is a truthful portrait of 'Calamity Jane,' our one Pettybaw grievance. Chapter XVI. The path that led to Crummylowe. 'Gae farer up the burn to Habbie's Howe, Where a' the sweets o' spring an' simmer grow: Between twa birks, out o'er a little lin, The water fa's an' mak's a singan din; A pool breast-deep, beneath as clear as glass, Kisses, wi' easy whirls, the bord'ring grass.' The Gentle Shepherd. That is what Peggy says to Jenny in Allan Ramsay's poem, and if you substitute 'Crummylowe' for 'Habbie's Howe' in the first line, you will have a lovely picture of the farm-steadin'.