“No,” was the answer.
“Aweel, ye’re in danger, for ken ye na it is our auld Scotch law that when there’s nae contract, and the year and the day hasna passed, and when the mither dees and the bairn dees without a cry, the tocher flees back again? Heard ye never the auld rhyme—
‘Mither dead and bairn gane,
Pay the tocher to her kin;
But an ye hear the bairn squeal,
Gudeman, grip the tocher weel.’”
“God bless me, Mrs Lythgow! is that the law?” cried the husband, in a fright.
“Indeed, and it is,” was the rejoinder. “You are muckle obliged to Writer George. If the bairn lives to be baptized, George is no the name it will bear.”
“No,” replied he; “if a boy, it will be baptized Thomas.”
“Tam!” ejaculated the howdie in a screechy voice, the reason of which might be that her son carrying that name had died during the year, and she was affected.