“Nay, but have mercy on me, have mercy on me,” cried 'Becca beseechingly.
“Weel, weel,” said Mattha, “they do say as theer's no fools like auld fools. Why, the lad's ram'lin'. Canst hear?—ram'lin'. Wadst hev us keck him intil the dike to die like ony dog?”
“Take him away, take him away,” cried 'Becca, retiring inwards, her importunity becoming every moment louder and more vehement.
“I reckon ye wad be a better stepmother to yon brocken-backt bitch of yours an it had the mange?” said Mattha.
“Nay, but the plague—the plague. Ye've heard what the new preachers are telling about the plague. Robbie's got it, Robbie's got the plague; I'm sure of it, sure.”
'Becca set down the candle to wring her hands.
“So thoo's sure of it, ista?” said Mattha. “Weel, I'll tell thee what I's sure on, and that is that thoo art yan o' them folks as waddant part with the reek off their kail. Ye'r nobbut an auld blatherskite, 'Becca, as preaches mair charity in a day ner ye'r ready to stand by in a twelvemonth. Come, Reuben, whip up yer dobbin. Let's away to my own house. I'd hev to be as poor as a kirk louse afore I'd turn my back on a motherless lad as is nigh to death's door.”
“Don't say that, father,” whimpered Liza.
“Nay, Mattha, nay, man,” cried 'Becca, “it's nought of that. It's my life that's in danger.”
“Shaf! that 'at is nowt is nivver in danger. Whear's the plague as wad think it worth while to bodder wid a skinflint like thee? Good neet, 'Becca, good neet, and 'od white te, lass, God requite thee!”