So the marriage was entered into without more use of written paper than what we call the marriage lines, and Writer George was satisfied until he began to see that Mrs Whitelaw was likely to be a mother before the expiry of the year and the day; but then he had the consolation--for, alas! human nature was the same in those olden times that it is now--of seeing that, while poor Janet was increasing in one way, she was decreasing in another, so that it was not unlikely that there would be not only a dead child, but a dead mother; and then he would come in as nearest of kin for the tocher of two thousand merks, of all which speculations on the part of the unnatural brother, Burgess Thomas knew nothing. But it so happened that Mrs Euphan Lythgow, the most skilly howdie or midwife in Edinburgh at that time, was the woman who was to bring the child into the world, and she had seen indications enough to satisfy her that there was a probability that things would go on in the very way so cruelly hoped for by the man of the law; nay, she had her eyes--open enough at all times--more opened still by some questions put to her by the wily expectant, and so she held it to be her duty to go straight to Burgess Thomas. “I fear,” said she, “baith for the mother and the bairn, for she is worn awa to skin and bane, and if she bear the heir she will only get lighter, as we ca’ it, to tak on a heavier burden, even that o’ death. The bairn may live, but it’s only a chance.” Whereat Burgess Thomas looked sad, for he really loved his wife, but it might just happen that a thought came into his head that death had no power over the two thousand merks. “If baith the mother and the bairn dee,” continued Euphan, “the money you got by her will tak wing and flee awa to Mr George, her brother.” “What mean you, woman?” asked Mr Whitelaw, as he looked wistfully and fearfully into the face of the howdie. “Had ye no’ a contract o’ marriage?” continued she. “No,” was the answer. “Aweel, ye’re in danger, for ken ye na it is our auld Scotch law that when there’s nae contract, and the year and the day hasna passed, and when the mither dees and the bairn dees without a cry, the tocher flees back again? Heard ye never the auld rhyme-- ‘Mither dead and bairn gane, Pay the tocher to her kin; But an ye hear the bairn squeal, Gudeman, grip the tocher weel.’” “God bless me, Mrs Lythgow! is that the law?” cried the husband, in a fright. “Indeed, and it is,” was the rejoinder. “You are muckle obliged to Writer George. If the bairn lives to be baptized, George is no the name it will bear.” “No,” replied he; “if a boy, it will be baptized Thomas.” “Tam!” ejaculated the howdie in a screechy voice, the reason of which might be that her son carrying that name had died during the year, and she was affected.