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Updated: June 7, 2025
He read the letter to the end, deliberately, and with a growing sense of relief: composition, expression and penmanship, all met with his approval. "This is the writing of a person of some refinement, my son." "Well, er ... yes," said Purdy. He seemed about to add a further word, then swallowed it, and went on: "Though, somehow or other, Till's different to herself, on paper.
And it's a cauld nicht. I ken that by my leg. And ye see Jeames Johnstone's no an ill-nater'd man like me. He's a douce man, and he's sure to be weel-pleased and come till's tay. Na, na; ye needna come back. Guid nicht to ye, my dawtie. The Lord bless ye for comin' to pray wi' an ill-nater'd man."
Noo I hae the banker's word for statin' that upo' the very Monday mornin' efter that Sunday, Bruce paid into the bank a five poun' note o' that verra indentical nummer. What say ye to that, Robert Bruce?" A silence followed. Thomas himself broke it with the words: "That money he oucht to hae supposed was Mr Cooie's, and returned it till's dochters. But he pays't intil's ain accoont.
Out of the text of folk-song, to be sure, all the strains are woven. Here and there we have the collective voice. If we have watched keenly, we have heard how the tune, simply though it begins, has later all the line of Till's personal phrase. Even in the bass it is, too. Of the same fibre is this demon mockery and the thread of folk legend. We cannot pretend to follow all the literal whims.
"It's no possible," returned Malcolm. "I saw him last nicht." "He cam aboot ten o'clock, sir, an' hed a turn o' the fa'in' sickness o' the spot. He's verra ill the noo, an' the mistress sent me ower to speir gien ye wad obleege her by gaein' to see him." "Has he ta'en till's bed?" asked Malcolm. "We pat him infill 't, sir. He's ravin' mad, an' I'm thinkin' he's no far frae his hin'er en'."
"Ow, the kirk o' Scotlan', of coorse!" answered the patient, in some surprise at her ignorance. "Ow, whase but the Redeemer's!" "An' div ye think, Mr Craithie, 'at gien Jesus Christ had had a horse to sell, he wad ha'e hidden frae him 'at wad buy, ae hair a fau't 'at the beast hed? Wad he no ha'e dune till's neiper as he wad ha'e his neiper du to him?" What wad he hae to du wi' horse flesh?"
"He'll be wi' Donal i' the byre, nae doobt," said Jean: "he's aye some shy o' comin' in wantin' an inveet." She went to the door, and called with a loud voice across the yard, through the wind and the clashing torrents, "Donal, sen' Dummie in till's brakfast." "He's awa' till's sheep," cried Donal in reply. "Preserve 's! the cratur 'll be lost!" said Jean.
My father's gane till's accoont; an it's weel for him he has his father an' no his sister to pronoonce upo' him." "'Deed ye're right there, laddie," said Miss Horn, in a subdued tone. "He's made it up wi' my mither afore noo, I'm thinkin'; an' ony gait he confesst her his wife an' me her son afore he dee'd, an' what mair had he time to du?" "It's fac'," returned Miss Horn.
"I kenna hoo I never thoucht o' sic a thing afore," answered Janet, leaning her broom against the wall, and dusting a chair for her visitor; "but this mornin', whan my man an' me was sittin' at oor brakfast, there cam' sic a clap o' thunner, 'at it jist garred the bit hoosie trim'le; an' doon fell a snot o' soot intil the very spune 'at my man was cairryin' till's honest moo.
An' there may be w'ys o' comin' nearer till ane anither up yon'er 'at we ken naething aboot doon here. There's that laddie, Gibbie: I canna but think 'at gien he hed the tongue to speyk, or aiven gien he cud mak' ony soon' wi' sense intil't, like singin', say, he wad fin' himsel' nearer till's nor he can i' the noo.
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