In another minute the vehicle was whirling across Wimbledon Common; the driver and his companion turning round on the “box,” as they dashed along, to make signs to the servants, who still loitered about the gate, indicative of the novel character of their fare, and folding their hands across their bosom, in imitation of the attitude of the fancied model within.
CHAPTER XXI.
“Them that’s fash’d wi’ nae bairns iver happy mun be,
For we’ve yen, and she’s maister o’ baith thee and me.
“I can’t for the life o’ me get her to work,
Nor aw the lang Sunday to go near a kirk;
Nor frae week en’ to week en’ a chapter to read,
For the Bible ligs stoury abuin the duir-head.
“She yence cud ha’e crammel’d and writ her awn neame,