On the party having got out of their chaises "Is this your freen's house, Mr Mowbray?" said Mr Adair, standing fast, and looking up with great astonishment and admiration at the splendid building before him. "It is, sir," replied Mr Mowbray. "My feth! an' he maun be nae sma' drink then that's clear. He has a rare sittin-down here. It's a house for a lord."

"A say, Sam," said the Presbyterian, "bring your son-in-laa wuth you." "An' I say that, too," exclaimed the drunken ruffian "A say that; A do. A'm married to his daughter; an' A say stull, that d my blood, bit A'll stick to my father-in-laa! That's the point!" and again he nodded his head, and looked round him with a drunken swagger: "A'll stick to my father-in-laa! A'll do that; feth, A wull!"*

"Feth, a main what's purty well known; that misfortune that befell our daughter Susanna." "Dear me, Sam, how was that?"

Now, isna that a queer affair! My feth, but they maun hae managed matters unco cannily and cunningly; for deil a bit o' me ever could see the least inklin o' anything past ordinar between them." "You see onything o' that kind!" replied Mrs Adair, with an expression of the greatest contempt for her husband's penetration in affaires de coeur. "You see't, Robin! No I dare say no.

"I am very sorry to hear this, Sam; but, surely the man who seduced your daughter does not deserve to be called religious." "Disn't he, feth? why, Lord bless you, sure it was all done in a religious way they sang psalms together, prayed together, read the Bible together, and now the truth is, that the consequence will be speaking for itself some of these days."

"She's one o' the baker's dozen o' them, plase your honor," observed a humorous little Presbyterian, with a sarcastic face, and sharp northern accent "for feth, sir, for my part, A thenk he lies one on every hill head. All count, your honor, on my fingers a roun' half-dozen, all on your estate, sir, featherin' their nests as fast as they can." "Is this Jackson a good tenant, Mr. Carson?"

"He seems to me to be a decent, canny lad; and, at ony rate, we canna be far wrang wi' ae six months o' him, ony way, seein that he's payin the siller afore haun. That's the grand point, Rab." "Feth, it's that, guidwife nae doot o't," replied her husband. "Juist the pint o' pints. But whar'll ye put the lad?" "Ou, tak ye nae fash about that, guidman. I'll manage that.

Over and round about it the wind blows always, but the cluster of white cottages and the old brown inn themselves lie close in a hollow of the moorland, flanked by the great cliffs. Only the grey church, set up on the heights, half a mile distant, endures the tempests. The wind passes over Feth and is gone. A busy fellow, the wind. He has no time to stop. Not so the sunshine.

That train will take him right to Liverpool. 'But look at him, groaned Mr. Gradgrind. 'Will any coach 'I don't mean that he thould go in the comic livery, said Sleary. 'Thay the word, and I'll make a Jothkin of him, out of the wardrobe, in five minutes. 'I don't understand, said Mr. Gradgrind. 'A Jothkin a Carter. Make up your mind quick, Thquire. There'll be beer to feth.

In the middle of the street, Gossip Simson is hurrying along, with the necessaries in her lap, to treat her "cusin," Christy Lowrie, with a bit and a drop; and ever and anon she says, "a guid e'en" to this one, and "a guid e'en" to that; and, between the parties, her head is ever thrown back, as if she were counting the stars; and, every time the act is repeated, the bottle undergoes a perceptible diminution of its contents, till, by the time she reaches her "luving cusin's" door, it is empty; and honest John Simson, at her return, greets her with "My feth, Jenny, ye've been at mony a hoose in Christ's Kirk this nicht, if ane may judge by yer bottle."