His wife stole after him, and found him on his knees by the bedside, his face buried in the blankets, where his boy lay asleep with calm, dreamless countenance. She took his hand, and led him back to bed. "To think," she moaned as they went, "'at yon's the same bairnie I glowert at till my sowl ran oot at my een!
'Think o' 't? says I ; 'what sud I think o' 't, but that it's the wull o' Providence? Wi' that she leuch till she wabblet a' ower like cauld skink, an' says she 'Weel, that's jist what it is no, an' that lat me tell ye, Miss Horn! I glowert at her, maist frichtit into believin' she was the witch fowk ca'd her.