The farmer, already
seated at the table, looked up, and anxiously regarding her, said--
"Bairn, ye're no fit to be aboot! Ye maun caw canny, or ye'll be ower the
burn yet or ever ye're safe upo' this side o' 't! Preserve's a'! ir we to
lowse ye twise in ae month?"
"Jist answer me ae queston, Isy, and I'll speir nae mair," said Marion.
"Na, na, never a queston!" interposed Peter;--"no ane afore even the
shaidow o' deith has left the hoose!--Draw ye up to the table, my bonny
bairn: this isna a time for ceremony, and there's sma' room for that ony
day!"
Finding, however, that she sat motionless, and looked far more death-like
than while in her trance, he got up, and insisted on her swallowing a
little whisky; when she revived, and glad to put herself under his nearer
protection, took the chair he had placed for her beside him, and made a
futile attempt at eating. "It's sma' won'er the puir thing hasna muckle
eppiteet," remarked Mrs. Blatherwick, "considerin the w'y yon ravin laddie
up the stair has been cairryin on til her!"
"What! Hoo's that?" questioned her husband with a start.
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