"'To Orange Lane!' says she; 'what in the name o' fortune's gaun to tak ye there?' "'O hinny,' says I, 'it's just a neebor lad or twa that's drapped in to wush us joy, and, ye ken, we canna but be neebor-like.' "'Ay! the sorrow joy them!' says she, 'and neebor too!--an' how meikle will that cost ye?' "'Hoot, Tibby,' says I, for I was quite astonished at her, 'ye no understand things, woman.' "'No understand them!' says she; 'I wish to guidness that ye wad understand them though! If that's the way ye intend to mak the siller flee, it's time there were somebody to tak care o't.' "I had put the silver in my pocket, and I was gaun to the door mair surprised than I can weel express, when she cried to me-- "'Mind what ye spend, and see that ye dinna stop.' "'Ye need be under nae apprehensions o' that, hinny,' said I, wishing to pacify her. "'See that it be sae,' cried she, as I shut the door. "I joined my neebors in a state of greater uneasiness o' mind than I had experienced for a length o' time. I couldna help thinkin but that Tibby had rather early begun to tak the upper hand, and it was what I never expected from her. However, as I was saying, we went up to Orange Lane, and we sat doun, and ae gill brocht on anither. Tibby's health and mine were drunk; we had several capital sangs; and, I daresay, it was weel on for ten o'clock afore we rose to gang awa. I was nae mair affected wi' drink than I am at this moment. But, somehow or ither, I was uneasy at the idea o' facing Tibby. I thought it would be a terrible thing to quarrel wi' her. I opened the door, and, bolting it after me, slipped in, half on the edge o' my fit. She was sitting wi' her hand at her haffit by the side o' the fire, but she never let on that she either saw or heard me--she didna speak a single word. If ever there was a woman 'Nursing her wrath to keep it warm,' it was her that nicht. I drew in a chair, and, though I was half-feared to speak-- "'What's the matter, my pet?' says I--'what's happened ye?' "But she sat looking into the fire, and never let on she heard me. 'E'en's ye like, Meg Dorts,' thought I, as Allan Ramsay says; but I durstna say it, for I saw that there was a storm brewing. At last, I ventured to say again-- "'What ails ye, Tibby, dear?--are ye no weel?' "'Weel!' cried she--'wha can be weel? Is this the way ye mean to carry on? What a time o' nicht is this to keep a body to, waiting and fretting on o' ye, their lane? Do you no think shame o' yoursel?' "'Hoot, woman,' says I, 'I'm surprised at ye; I'm sure ye hae naething to mak a wark about--it's no late yet.' "'I dinna ken what ye ca' late,' said she; 'it wadna be late amang yer cronies, nae doubt; but if it's no late, it's early, for I warrant its mornin.' "'Nonsense!' says I.