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"Speyk na like that o' the poopit, Jamie, whaur sae mony holy men hae stede up and spoken the word o' God! It frichts me to hear ye! Ye'll be a burnin and a shinin licht i' that poopit for mony a lang day efter we're deid and hame!" "The mair holy men that hae there witnessed, the less daur ony livin lee stan' there braggin and blazin i' the face o' God and man!
I s' warran' Frostie says mair in ae half-hoor to his tyke, nor Jeemie has said to you or me sin' first he gaed to the college!" "Bairns is whiles a queer kin' o' a blessin!" remarked the mother. "But, eh, Peter! it's what may lie ahint the silence that frichts me!" "Lass, ye're frichtin me noo! What div ye mean?" "Ow naething!" returned Marion, bursting into tears.
As the Master approached he looked up. "Weel, Moore," he called, "and are you gaein' to tie yer dog?" "I will if you will yours," the Master answered grimly. "Na," the little man replied, "it's Wullie as frichts the Killer aff the Grange. That's why I've left him there noo." "It's the same wi' me," the Master said.
"Ay is she; but I doobt she wad be waur gien she didna brak oot that gait whiles," rejoined Malcolm. "How do you mean?" "It frichts fowk at her, an' maybe sometimes pits 't oot o' her pooer to du waur. Gien ever she seek to mak it up wi' ye, my leddy, I wad hae little to say till her, gien I was you." "What could I have to say to a low creature like that?"
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