“Wae be to them for a pack o’ greedy gallayniels—they haena the mence of a miller’s yaud; for though she’ll stap her nose into every body’s pock, yet when she’s fou she’ll carry naething wi’ her. Heichow! wae’s me, that I sude hae lived to see the day! That ever I sude hae lived to see the colehood take the laverock’s place; and the stanchel and the merlin chatterin’ frae the cushat’s nest! Ah! wae’s me! will the sweet voice o’ the turtle–doo be nae mair heard in our land! There was a time when I sat on the bonny green brae an’ listened to it till the tears dreepit frae my een, an’ a’ the hairs o’ my head stood on end!—The hairs o’ my head?—Ay, that’s nae lie! They’re grey now, an’ will soon be snaw–white if heart’s care can alter them; but they will never be sae white as they anes war. I saw the siller–grey lock o’ age, an’ the manly curls o’ youth wavin’ at my side that day!—But where are they now? A’ mouled! a’ mouled!—But the druckit blood winna let them rot! I’ll see them rise fresh an’ bonny! I’ll look round to my right hand and ane will sae, ‘Mother! my dear mother, are you here with us?’ I’ll turn to my left hand, another will say, ‘Nanny! my dear and faithful wife, are you too here with us?’—I’ll say, ‘Ay, John, I’m here; I was yours in life; I have been yours in death; an’ I’ll be yours in life again.’—Dear bairn, dear bairn, are you there,” continued she, observing Katharine standing close behind her; “what was I saying, or where was I at? I little wat outher what I was saying or doing.—Hout ay; I was gaun ower some auld things, but they’re a’ like a dream, an’ when I get amang them I’m hardly mysel. Dear bairn, ye maunna mind an auld crazy body’s reveries.” There was some need for this apology, if Nanny’s frame, air, and attitude, are taken into account. She was standing with her back to the light, mixing meal with water, whereof to make bread—her mutch, or _night–hussing_, as she called it, was tied close down over her cheeks and brow as usual; her grey locks hanging dishevelled from under it; and as she uttered the last sentence, immediately before noticing her young mistress, her thin mealy hands were stretched upwards, her head and body bent back, and her voice like one in a paroxysm. Katharine quaked, although well accustomed to scenes of no ordinary nature. “Nanny,” said she, “there is something that preys upon your mind—some great calamity that recurs to your memory, and goes near to unhinge your tranquillity of mind, if not your reason. Will you inform me of it, good Nanny, that I may talk and sympathize with you over it?” “Dear bairn, nae loss ava—A’ profit! a’ profit i’the main! I haena biggit a bield o’ the windlestrae, nor lippened my weight to a broken reed! Na, na, dear bairn; nae loss ava.” “But, Nanny, I have overheard you in your most secret hours, in your prayers and self–examinations.”