bude to hae sleepit there a’ nicht. Sae he had, but it was the sleep ’at kens no waukin--at least no the kin’ o’ waukin’ ’at comes wi’ the mornin’!” Cosmo recognized with a shudder his favourite spot, where on his birthday, as on many a day before, he had fallen asleep. But the old woman went on with her story. “Deid was the auld captain--as deid as ever was man ’at had nane left to greit for him. But thof there was nae greitin’, no but sic a hullabaloo as rase upo’ the discovery! They rade an’ they ran; the doctor cam’, an’ the minister, an’ the lawyer, an’ the grave-digger. But whan a man’s deid, what can a’ the warl’ du for ’im but berry ’im? puir hin’er en’ thof it be to him’ at draws himsel’ up, an’ blaws himsel’ oot! There was mony a conjectur as to hoo he cam by his deith, an’ mony a doobt it wasna by fair play. Some said he dee’d by his ain han’, driven on til ’t by the enemy; an’ it was true the blade he cairriet was lyin’ upo’ the grass aside ’im; but ither some ’at exem’t him, said the hole i’ the side o’ ’im was na made wi’ that. But o’ a’ ’at cam to speir efter ’im, the English lord was nane. He hed vainished the country. The general opinyon sattled doon to this, ’at they twa bude till hae fa’en oot at cairts, an’ fouchten it oot, an’ the auld captain, for a’ his skeel an’ exparience, had had the warst o’ ’t, an’ so there they faun’ ’im.--But I reckon, Cosmo, yer father ’ill hae tellt ye a’ aboot the thing, mony’s the time, or noo, an’ I’m jist deivin’ ye wi’ my clavers, an haudin ye ohn sleepit!” “Na, Grannie,” answered Cosmo, “he never tellt me what ye hae tellt me noo. He did tell me ’at there was sic a man, an’ the ill en’ he cam til; an’ I think he was jist gaein’ on to tell me mair, whan Grizzie cam to say the denner was ready. That was only yesterday--or the day afore, I’m thinkin’, by this time.--But what think ye could hae been in ’s heid wi’ yon jingle aboot the horsie?” “Ow! what wad be intil ’t but jist fulish nonsense? Ye ken some fowk has a queer trick o’ sayin’ the same thing ower an’ ower again to themsel’s, wi’oot ony sense intil ’t. There was the auld laird himsel’; he was ane o’ sic. Aye an’ ower again he wad be sayin’ til himsel’, ‘A hun’er poun’! Ay, a hun’er poun’!’ It maittered na what he wad be speikin’ aboot, or wha til, in it wad come!--i’ the middle o’ onything, ye cudna tell whan or whaur,--‘A hun’er poun’!’ says he; ‘Ay, a hun’er poun’!’ Fowk leuch at the first, but sune gat used til ’t, an’ cam hardly to ken ’at he said it, for what has nae sense has little hearin’. An’ I doobtna thae rimes wasna even a verse o’ an auld ballant, but jist a cletter o’ clinkin’ styte (_nonsense_) ’at he had learnt frae some blackamore bairn, maybe, an’ cudna get oot o’ ’s heid ony ither gait, but bude to say ’t to hae dune wi’ ’t--jist like a cat whan it gangs scrattin’ at the door, ye hae to get up, whether ye wull or no, an’ lat the cratur oot.”