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'I said there was nae odds i' me, Betty, persisted Robert, laughing. 'I kenna what may be in ye, retorted Betty; 'but there's an unco' odds upo' ye. 'Haud yer tongue, Betty, said her mistress. 'Ye oucht to ken better nor stan' jawin' wi' young men. Fess mair o' the creamy cakes. 'Maybe Robert wad like a drappy o' parritch. 'Onything, Betty, said Robert. 'I'm at deith's door wi' hunger.
Falconer, the first greetings over, 'ane 's ta'en an' anither 's left! but what for 's mair nor I can faddom. There's that fine young man, Maister Ericson, at deith's door; an' here am I, an auld runklet wife, left to cry upo' deith, an' he winna hear me. 'Cry upo' God, grannie, an' no upo' deith, said Robert, catching at the word as his grandmother herself might have done.
"The evenin' licht, sir," he answered at length; "for ye see the sun's deem' like, an' deith's like a fa'in asleep, an' the grave's the bed, an' the sod's the bedclaes, an' there's a lang nicht to the fore." "Are ye sure o' that, Malcolm?" "It's the wye folk thinks an' says aboot it, sir." "Or maybe doesna think, an' only says?" "Maybe, sir; I dinna ken."
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