"She'll no be ill to carry, puir thing," said John Monilaws. "The only weight aboot her will be that o' death, whilk they say is great even in a bird. Whar does her mither lie?"
"Whar should she lie?" replied Cubby, again put into a state of agitation, remarked particularly by Carey. "Think ye she's no in her grave?"
"I hae little doot o' that, Cubby," said the other; "but I hope puir Jeanie hears naething o' a' this."
On looking at the invalid, all parties were surprised to see her looking up in their faces, apparently comprehending every word they said.
"Ye're better, I think, Jeanie," said John.
"I dinna ken," replied the poor maiden. "Ask my faither. I can say naething about mysel. He'll answer for me."
"Hae ye been gettin ony meat except this crowdy an Adam's wine?" again said the other.
"My faither kens best what kind o' wine I hae been gettin," replied she.
"Wine!" ejaculated Cubby—"God keep me an' my house frae sic extravagance! Mair souls an' siller hae been drooned in that liquor than in the Dead Sea, whilk hauds Sodom and Gomorrah."
"An' some bodies hae been saved wi't," said John, taking out a small bottle and a glass, and emptying some wine, which, by holding up the poor invalid, he endeavoured to prevail upon her to taste.