‘But you have not known him all his days—therefore, how can you say he has been daft all his days?—He might have been wise enough when you did not know him.’
‘I dinna think it,’ said Jenny;—‘I dinna think it was ever in him to be wise—he’s no o’ a nature to be wise.’
‘What do you mean by a nature?—Explain yourself.’
‘I canna explain mysel ony better,’ was the answer; ‘only I ken that a cat’s no a dog, nor o’ a nature to be,—and so the Laird could ne’er be a man o’ sense.’
‘Very ingenious, indeed,’ said Mr. Threeper; ‘and I am sure the gentlemen of the jury must be satisfied that it is not possible to give a clearer—a more distinctive impression of the deficiency of Mr. Walkinshaw’s capacity, than has been given by this simple and innocent country girl.—But, Jenny, can you tell us of any instance of his daftness?’
‘I can tell you o’ naething but the sic-like about him.’
‘Cannot you remember any thing he said or did on any particular day?’
‘O aye, atweel I wat I can do that—on the vera day when I gaed hame, frae my service at the Grippy to Mr. George’s, the sheep were sheared, and Mr. Watty said they were made sae naked, it was a shame to see them, and took one o’ his mother’s flannen polonies, to mak a hap to Mall Loup-the-Dike, the auld ewe, for decency.’
Jenny was then cross-questioned by Mr. Queerie, the able and intelligent advocate employed for the defence by Mr. Keelevin; but her evidence was none shaken, nor did it appear that her master had in any way influenced her. Before she left the box, the Sheriff said jocularly,—
‘I’m sure, from your account, Jenny, that Mr. Walkinshaw’s no a man ye would like to marry?’