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Updated: June 15, 2025
"Wasna there some ane o' ye said," asked the old sibyl, "or did I dream, or was it revealed to me, that Joscelind, Lady Glenallan, is dead, an' buried this night?" "Yes, gudemither," screamed the daughter-in-law, "it's e'en sae." "And e'en sae let it be," said old Elspeth; "she's made mony a sair heart in her day ay, e'en her ain son's is he living yet?"
And looking round the fire, as if in a state of unconscious uncertainty of which she complained, old Elspeth relapsed into her habitual and mechanical occupation of twirling the spindle. "Eh, sirs!" said Jenny Rintherout, under her breath to her gossip, "it's awsome to hear your gudemither break out in that gait it's like the dead speaking to the living."
"Troth, hinny," answered the Nereid, "if they let naebody but papists come there, it'll no be muckle o' a show in this country, for the auld harlot, as honest Mr. Here she exalted her voice, and exclaimed twice or thrice, "Gudemither! gudemither!" but, lost in the apathy of age and deafness, the aged sibyl she addressed continued plying her spindle without understanding the appeal made to her.
"Wasna there some ane o' ye said," asked the old sibyl, "or did I dream, or was it revealed to me, that Joscelind, Lady Glenallan, is dead, an' buried this night?" "Yes, gudemither," screamed the daughter-in-law, "it's e'en sae." "And e'en sae let it be," said old Elspeth; "she's made mony a sair heart in her day ay, e'en her ain son's is he living yet?"
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