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I can whiles sing an auld sang but mak' a new ane! Lord, man! I can hardly believe 'at ever I made a sang i' my life. Luik at my han' hoo it trimles. Luik at my hert. It's brunt oot. There's no a leevin' crater but yersel' that I hae ony regaird for, sin my auld mither deid. Gin it warna for buiks, I wad amaist cut my throat.
I ken no ill to lay till her chairge, but I winna lippen till her. My gran'father an' he's blin', ye ken jist trimles whan she comes near him." The marquis smiled. "What do you suppose she was about?" he asked. "I ken nae mair than the bonnet I flang in her face, my lord; but it could hardly be guid she was efter.
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