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Updated: May 18, 2025
We canna sweyp it oot." The water was in the bed. And it was pitch dark. Annie, who lay at the front, stretched her arm over the side. It sunk to the elbow. In a moment more the bed beneath her was like a full sponge. She lay in silent terror, longing for the dawn. "I'm terrible cauld," said Tibbie. Annie tried to answer her, but the words would not leave her throat. The water rose.
He's nane o' yer saft buirds, that ye can sleek wi' a sweyp o' yer airm; he's a blue whunstane that's hard to dress, but, anes dressed, it bides the weather bonnie. I like to work upo' hard stane mysel. Nane o' yer saft freestane, 'at ye cud cut wi' a k-nife, for me!" "Weel, I daursay ye're richt, Thamas."
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