“Eh! I came to think at last he was, maybe, a Hielander,” said Lizzie, “though they’re seldom that fat. And he laid down the book straight before in the stair. I kent what kind of book it was. It was the book wi’ a’ kind o’ words, and the meanings. But the meanings just were English, and the words were some other language. And I kind of guessed what he wanted, too. He wanted me to look in the book for the words he said, to tell me what he meant; but eh! how was I to ken where one word ended and another began? And he just hurried on and on; and the mair I listened, the mair I could not hear a single word, and looking at the book was just nonsense; and Master baby, he would try his hand; and oh, Mem, if you’re angry, I didna mean ony ill, and I’ll never do it again.” “Nonsense, Lizzie! I am not angry; but couldn’t you get on with the dictionary, and help the poor fellow? Were not you a very good scholar at school?” “No very,” said Lizzie, hanging her head in agonies of pleased but painful bashfulness, and unconsciously uttering her sentiments in language as puzzling to an English hearer as any uttered by our fat friend downstairs. “No very,” said Lizzie, anxiously truthful, yet not unwilling to do herself due credit;--“no _very_, but gey.” Here I fear my laugh rather shocked and affronted Lizzie. She stood very upright, and twisted nothing but her fingers. It would have been as impossible to persuade her that there was scarcely a person in Chester, but myself, who could have translated that exquisite monosyllable as to convince the foreigner that he was actually and positively incomprehensible in spite of the dictionary. But I will not attempt to interpret _gey_; it is untranslatable, as we are quite content so many French words should be. Even into Harry’s head, which should be capable of better things, I find it quite impossible to convey an idea of the expressiveness of this word. Lizzie and I, however, knew no other to put in its place. “But a _gey_ good scholar might do a great deal for the poor fellow,” said I, when I had got over my laughter; “tell him the English names for things. Try if you can find out his name; but I forgot you were frightened for him, Lizzie.” “Aye, till I thought he might, maybe, be a Hielander,” said Lizzie. “Though the Hielanders dinna belang to us at hame, they might feel kindly in a strange place; and I’ve heard folk speaking Gaelic. But this is no like Gaelic, it’s a’ aws and os; and it’s awfu’ fast, just a rattle; a’ the words run in to one another. Forbye what harm could he do me? and the book was straight in my way on the stair; and it gangs to my heart to set my foot on a book. Ye might be trampin’ ower a bit o’ the Bible without kennin’; and then he’s very good-natured; and then,” said Lizzie, her eyes suddenly glowing up, “it would be grand to learn a language that nae ither body kens!”