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"Never mind, it will do to-morrow," muttered the hunter with an offended air. "As I'm a leevin' sinner, it's noo or it's nivver," insisted the Factor, who had no desire to let the Indian have another day at it. "Come back this verra minnit, an' I'll gi'e ye a wheen poothers an' sic like, that'll keep ye a' hale and hearty, I houp, till ye win hame again."
"I s' tell her mysel'," returned Malcolm. "But, gentlemen, I beg o' ye, till I ken what I'm aboot an' gie ye leave, dinna open yer moo' to leevin' cratur' aboot this. There's time eneuch for the warl' to ken 't." "Your lordship commands me," said Mr. Soutar. "Yes, Malcolm, until you give me leave," said Mr. Graham. "Whaur's Mr. Morrison?" asked Malcolm. "He is still in the house," said Mr. Soutar.
The saughs tossed an' maned thegether, a long sigh cam' ower the hills, the flame o' the can'le was blawn aboot; an' there stood the corp of Thrawn Janet, wi' her grogram goun an' her black mutch, wi' the heid aye upon the shouther, an' the girn still upon the face o' 't, leevin', ye wad hae said deid, as Mr. Soulis weel kenned, upon the threshold o' the manse.
"Ye're a friend o' his. Let me say tae ye if ony ill cames tae her, by the leevin' God above us he wull answer tae me." Hoarse, panting, his face that of a maniac, he stood glaring wild-eyed at the young man before him. To say that Vic was shaken by this sudden and violent onslaught would be much within the truth. Nevertheless he boldly faced the passion-distracted man. "Look here!
"Gin ye want a wife, Saunders, ye'll hae to look oot for a deef yin, for it's no ony or'nar' woman that could stand yer mither's tongue. Na, Saunders, it wad be like leevin' i' a corn-mill rinnin' withoot sheaves." "Meg," said Saunders, edging up cautiously, "I hae something to gie ye!" "Aff wi' ye, Cuif!
"No i' the pyramids, An' no the worms amids, 'Neth coffin-lids; I bidena whaur life has been, An' whaur's nae mair to be dune." "Death! whaur do ye bide, auld Death?" "Wi' the leevin', to dee 'at's laith," Quo' Death. "Death! whaur do ye bide, auld Death?" "Abune an' aboot an' aneath," Quo' Death.
It was still light enough to see the little creature on the snowy mound and, indeed, Bobby got up and wagged his tail in friendly greeting. At that all the bluster went out of the man, and he began to argue the matter with the dog. "Come awa', Bobby. Ye canna be leevin' i' the kirkyaird." Bobby was of a different opinion.
When I was leevin' as an under gairdener wi' a laird i' Argyleshire I was aye aboot the kennels wi' the gillies. That was lang syne. The sma' terrier dogs were aye washed i' claes tubs wi' warm water an' soap. Come awa', Bobby." The caretaker got up stiffly, for such snell weather was apt to give him twinges in his joints. In him a youthful enthusiasm for dogs had suddenly revived.
A crippled laddie who must "mak' 'is leevin' wi' 'is heid" can waste no moment of daylight, and in the ancient buildings around Greyfriars the maximum of daylight was to be had only by those able and willing to climb to the gables. Tammy, having to live on the lowest, darkest floor of all, used the kirkyard for a study, by special indulgence of the caretaker, whenever the weather permitted.
"Ye'll be Lord Durie, I'm thinkin'," he cried, raising his hand to stay the rider, a middle-aged, legal-faced man, who sat his sober steed none too confidently, with thighs but lightly wed to the saddle. "Yes, I'm Lord Durie. What can I do for you?" "Weel, my lord, I've come far to see ye. They say there's no' a lawyer leevin' or deid that kens mair nor you on a' thing.
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