Nanse, on finding herself in a certain way, was a thought dumfoundered; and instead of laughing, as she did at first, when I told her my dream, she soon came to regard the matter as one of sober earnest. The very prospect of what was to happen threw a gleam of comfort round our bit fireside: and, long ere the day had come about which was to crown our expectations, Nanse was prepared with her bit stock of baby's wearing apparel, and all necessaries appertaining thereto--wee little mutches with lace borders, and side-knots of blue three-ha'penny ribbon--long muslin frockies, vandyked across the breast, drawn round the waist with narrow nittings, and tucked five rows about the tail--Welsh-flannel petticoaties--demity wrappers--a coral gum-stick, and other uncos, which it does not befit the like of me to particularize. I trust, on my part, as far as in me lay, I was not found wanting; having taken care to provide a famous Dunlop cheese, at fivepence-halfpenny the pound--I believe I paled fifteen, in Joseph Gowdy's shop, before I fixed on it;--to say nothing of a bottle, or maybe two, of real peat-reek, Farintosh, small-still Hieland whisky--Glenlivat, I think, is the name o't--half a peck of shortbread, baken by Thomas Burlings, with three pounds of butter, and two ounces of carvie-seeds in it, let alone orange-peel, and a pennyworth of ground cinnamon--half a mutchkin of best cony brandy, by way of change--and a Musselburgh ankerstoke, to slice down for tea-drinkings and posset cups. Every one has reason to be thankful, and me among the rest; for many a worse provided for, and less welcome down-lying has taken place, time out of mind, throughout broad Scotland. I say this with a warm heart, as I am grateful for all my mercies. To hundreds above hundreds such a catastrophe brings scarcely any joy at all; but it was far different with me, who had a Benjamin to look for. If the reader will be so kind as to look over the next chapter, he will find whether or not I was disappointed in my expectations. CHAPTER VIII.--LETTING LODGINGS. Then first he ate the white puddings, And syne he ate the black, O; Though muckle thought the Gudewife to hersell, Yet ne'er a word she spak, O. But up then started our Gudeman, And an angry man was he, O. _Old Song_.