'Ay, man—imphm! so far, so guid. Ye ken, sir, there are some fouk that'll no' gi'e in when ocht ails them. There was Cairneyheid, for instance. Did ye ken him? No—imphm! it doesna maitter. Weel, Cairnie, as we ca'd him for short, had farmed on the Alton rig a' his days. The rig lies high, an there's aye plenty o' guid fresh air up yonder, and Cairnie never in his life had had even a sair heid. But, dod, sir, ae day, after his denner, he quately slippit to the flaer, an' couldna get up again. Weel, he sat there till aboot hauf six withoot sayin' a single damn, an' if ye kenned Cairnie an' his weys ye could understaun that that gied his women-fouk a glauff. Weel, suddenly he lookit up an' asked for a gless o' whisky, an' they thocht frae that that he was better. He did kind o' revive after his dram, an' wi' nae sma' trauchle they got him to his bed. Next mornin' he was dreich o' risin', an' when he got to his breakfast he couldna eat, an' still he didna sweer, so they sent awa' doon for the doctor. Weel, whenever the doctor cam' an' saw him he ordered him at aince to be put in his bed. "Bed!" said Cairnie. "Bed in the guid daylicht! I think I see mysel'! I never in a' my life gaed to my bed except at nicht an' to sleep, an' I'm no' gaun the noo;" an' he got up oot o' his chair in spite o' them. "I'm awa' up to the high field to see hoo they're gettin' on wi' the turnip-shawin'," he said; an' withoot dug or stick he oot o' the hoose. Hooever he got the length o' the field guidness only kens, but there he got. "Hurry on, men," he said; "dinna be feart to bend your backs in guid shawin' weather like this. The pits'll a' be ready afore ye're ready for them;" an' he lifted a knife to gi'e them a haun. He pu'd a turnip, an' was juist gaun to whang off the shaw, when doon he drappit in the middle o' the drill as deid as Abel.'
Nathan relit his pipe, which had gone out during the narrative. 'Ay,' he continued, as he puffed audibly, 'it was a very big funeral, was Cairnie's. He was buried in Dalgarnock—a damp, douth place to lie in, in my estimation. No' that it maitters muckle, I daur say; but still'——
'Whae's this ye're on, Nathan?' said Betty, who had entered the room unobserved.
'Oh, naebody parteeklar, Betty. I'm juist ca'in' the crack as ye telt me, an' keepin' Maister Weelum here cheery till ye come up;' and he rose, with a sigh of relief, from his chair, sidled toward the door, and went cautiously downstairs.
When I heard him safely round the 'sherp' turn on the staircase I looked at the sonsie, kindly face of my old nurse. 'Oh my dear Betty, I am glad to see you!' I said with fervour.
'Hoo's that, noo, Maister Weelum?' and she gave a wee bit pleased laugh. 'Ha'e ye been missin' me? Has Nathan no' been ca'in' the crack?'
'Yes, Betty, I have been missing you, and Nathan has been ca'in' the crack; but, Betty'—and I lowered my voice—'he's been in kirk-yards all the time.'
'Ah, is that so?' she sympathetically asked. 'I'm sorry, noo, to ken that. He must ha'e been workin' among leaf-mould the day.'
'He was, Betty; he told me so.'
'That accoonts for it, Maister Weelum. Nathan's awfu' queer that wey; but, puir falla, he canna help it; an' then ye ken he means sae terribly weel. I'm awfu' sorry, though, if his crack has depressed ye. Ye're juist a wee bittie doon i' the mooth the noo, an' ye'll be easily putten aboot; but keep your pecker up, like a guid laddie, an' ye'll soon be better in health an' better in spirits. Efter a', an' when a''s considered, ye've a lot to be thankfu' for. Mony a yin wad gladly change places wi' ye. It's a gey hard, step-motherly kind o' world this for some folk; but you—weel, I wad say ye've your fu' share o' blessin's.'