"And what is the reason, in Heaven's name," answered the matron, keeping her eyes firmly shut, and still shrewish in her expostulation, though in the very extremity of terror, "what is the reason that you should come and frighten a decent house, where you met naething, when ye was in the body, but the height of civility?" "And why should I frighten you, Mrs. Dods? or, in one word, what is the meaning of all this nonsensical terror?" "Are not you," said Mrs. Dods, opening her eyes a little as she spoke, "the ghaist of Francis Tirl?" "I am Francis Tyrrel, unquestionably, my old friend." "I kend it! I kend it!" answered the honest woman, relapsing into her agony; "and I think ye might be ashamed of yourself, that are a ghaist, and have nae better to do than to frighten a puir auld alewife." "On my word, I am no ghost, but a living man," answered Tyrrel. "Were ye no murdered than?" demanded Mrs. Dods, still in an uncertain voice, and only partially opening her eyes--"Are ye very sure ye werena murdered?" "Why, not that ever I heard of, certainly, dame," replied Tyrrel. "But _I_ shall be murdered presently," said old Touchwood from the kitchen, where he had hitherto remained a mute auditor of this extraordinary scene--"_I_ shall be murdered, unless you fetch me some water without delay." "Coming, sir, coming," answered Dame Dods, her professional reply being as familiar to her as that of poor Francis's "Anon, anon, sir." "As I live by honest reckonings," said she, fully collecting herself, and giving a glance of more composed temper at Tyrrel, "I believe it _is_ yoursell, Maister Frank, in blood and body after a'--And see if I dinna gie a proper sorting to yon twa silly jauds that gard me mak a bogle of you, and a fule of mysell--Ghaists! my certie, I sall ghaist them--If they had their heads as muckle on their wark as on their daffing, they wad play nae sic pliskies--it's the wanton steed that scaurs at the windle-strae--Ghaists! wha e'er heard of ghaists in an honest house? Naebody need fear bogles that has a conscience void of offence.--But I am blithe that MacTurk hasna murdered ye when a' is done, Maister Francie." "Come this way, Mother Dods, if you would not have me do a mischief!" exclaimed Touchwood, grasping a plate which stood on the dresser, as if he were about to heave it at the landlady, by way of recalling her attention. "For the love of Heaven, dinna break it!" exclaimed the alarmed landlady, knowing that Touchwood's effervescence of impatience sometimes expended itself at the expense of her crockery, though it was afterwards liberally atoned for. "Lord, sir, are ye out of your wits!--it breaks a set, ye ken--Godsake, put doun the cheeny plate, and try your hand on the delf-ware!--it will just make as good a jingle--But, Lord haud a grip o' us! now I look at ye, what can hae come ower ye, and what sort of a plight are ye in!--Wait till I fetch water and a towel."