‘What thieves, i’ the name o’ common sense, Kirsty?’
‘Love o’ yer ain gait, and love o’ makin a show, and want o’ care for what’s richt. Aih, Francie, I doobt something a heap waur ’ll hae to come upo’ ye! A’ my labour’s lost, and I dearly grudge it—no the labour, but the loss o’ ’t! I grudge that sair.’
‘Kirsty, i’ the name o’ God, wha is my neebour?’
‘Yer ain mither.’
‘My ain mither!—her oot o’ a’ the warl’?—I never cam upo’ spark o’ rizzon intil her!’
‘Michtna she be that ane oot o’ a’ the warl’, ye never shawed spark o’ rizzon til?’
‘There’s nae place in her for reason to gang til!’
‘Ye never tried her wi’ ’t! Ye wud arguy wi’ her mair nor plenty, but did ye ever shaw her rizzon i’ yer behaviour?’
‘Weel ye are turnin agen me—you ’at’s saved my life frae her! Didna I tell you hoo, whan I wan hame at last and gaed til her, for she was aye guid to me when I wasna weel, she fell oot upo’ me like a verra deevil, ragin and ca’in me ill names, ’at I jist ran frae the hoose—and ye ken whaur ye faun’ me! Gien it hadna been for you, I wud hae been deid: I was waur nor deid a’ready! What w’y can I be neebour to her! It wud be naething but cat and dog atween’s frae mornin to nicht!’
‘Ae body canna be cat and dog baith! And the dog’s as ill’s the cat—whiles waur!’