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Personal charms, it would be ridiculous to run the parallel. And for conduct in life, Miss Nimmo was never called out, either much to do or to suffer; Clarinda has been both; and has performed her part, where Miss Nimmo would have sunk at the bare idea. Away, then, with these disquietudes! Let us pray with the honest weaver of Kilbarchan "Lord, send us a gude conceit o' oursel!"
Pickering, without making any sign or imparting any information to our good and obliging friend Dr. Bandinel, Bodley's Librarian. We thought that when we had secured a copy for oursel it would be time enough to acquaint the learned Doctor that he was entertaining unawares this angel of the New World.
I see nothing distinctly until one of the grimmest of the faces thrusts itself before the others, and a voice which, like Aaron's rod, swallows up all its fellows, says in deep, determined bass, "Coom, we've had enow chatter, master. Thee mun give 'un up, or thee mun get out o' th' way an' we'll search th' house for oursel'."
Baith are rare specimens o' Nature's handiwark." "Your Majesty is pleased to be complimentary," rejoined Sir Richard Assheton. "Na, Sir Richard," returned James. "We arena gien to flichtering, though aften beflummed oursel'. Baith are bonnie lassies, we repeat.
Yo're not to think we'd ha' letten 'em clem, for all we're a bit pressed oursel'; if neighbours doesn't see after neighbours, I dunno who will. Bessy seemed almost afraid lest Margaret should think they had not the will, and, to a certain degree, the power of helping one whom she evidently regarded as having a claim upon them.
"Come, wench," said Job, "don't look so gloppened* because thou'st fallen asleep while an oud chap like me was talking on oud times. It were like enough to send thee to sleep. Try if thou canst keep thine eyes open while I read thy father a bit on a poem as is written by a weaver like oursel. A rare chap I'll be bound is he who could weave verse like this." *Gloppened; amazed, frightened.
"I promise you I will be good," said Edith eagerly. "That's mair than ony on us can say of oursel," said Malcom, showing the doctrinal bias of his mind, "but I ken fra' yer bonnie face ye mean weel." "Oh, Mr. McTrump, that is the first compliment I have received in Pushton," laughed Edith. "I'm a thinkin' it'll not be the last.
I know that, replied the coachman gruffly, as he banged the door. ''Tilda, dear, really, remonstrated Miss Squeers, 'we shall be taken for I don't know what. 'Let them tak' us as they foind us, said John Browdie; 'we dean't come to Lunnun to do nought but 'joy oursel, do we? 'I hope not, Mr Browdie, replied Miss Squeers, looking singularly dismal. 'Well, then, said John, 'it's no matther.
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