‘And I think a heap mair o’ ye,’ answered Kirsty. ‘I canna but think ye upo’ the richt ro’d noo, Francie!’
‘I houp I am, but I’m aye fin’in oot something ’at ’ill never du.’
‘And ye’ll keep fin’in oot that sae lang ’s there’s onything left but what’s like himsel.’
‘I un’erstan ye, Kirsty. But I cam to ye the day, no to say onything aboot mysel, but jist ’cause I cudna du wantin yer help. I wudna hae presumed but that I thoucht, although I dinna deserve ’t, for auld kin’ness ye wud say what ye wud advise.’
‘I’ll du that, Francie—no for auld kin’ness, but for kin’ness never auld. What’s wrang wi’ ye?’
‘Kirsty, wuman, she’s brocken oot again!’
‘I dinna won’er. I hae h’ard o’ sic things.’
‘It’s jist taen the pith oot o’ me! What am I to du?’
‘Ye canna du better nor weel; jist begin again.’
‘I had coft her a bonny cairriage, wi’ as fine a pair as ever ye saw, Kirsty, as I daur say yer father has telled ye. And they warna lost upon her, for she had aye a gleg e’e for a horse. Ye min’ yon powny?—And up til yesterday, a’ gaed weel, till I was thinkin I cud trust her onygait. But i’ the efternune, as she was oot for an airin, ane o’ the horses cuist a shue, and thinkin naething o’ the risk til a human sowl, but only o’ the risk til the puir horse, the fule fallow stoppit at a smithy nae farrer nor the neist door frae a public, and tuik the horse intil the smithy, lea’in the smith’s lad at the heid o’ the ither horse. Sae what suld my leddy but oot upo’ the side frae the smithy, and awa roon the back o’ the cairriage to the public, and in! Whether she took onything there I dinna ken, but she maun hae broucht a bottle hame wi her, for this mornin she was fou—fou as e’er ye saw man in market!’