“Lord haud a care o’ us!” exclaimed the astounded maiden.
“What’s the matter now, Grizel?”
“Wad ye but just speak a moment, Monkbarns?”
“Speak!—what should I speak about? I want to get to my bed—and this poor young fellow—let a bed be made ready for him instantly.”
“A bed?—The Lord preserve us!” again ejaculated Grizel.
“Why, what’s the matter now?—are there not beds and rooms enough in the house?—was it not an ancient hospitium, in which, I am warranted to say, beds were nightly made down for a score of pilgrims?”
“O dear, Monkbarns! wha kens what they might do lang syne?—but in our time—beds—ay, troth, there’s beds enow sic as they are—and rooms enow too—but ye ken yoursell the beds haena been sleepit in, Lord kens the time, nor the rooms aired.—If I had kenn’d, Mary and me might hae gaen down to the manse—Miss Beckie is aye fond to see us—(and sae is the minister, brother)—But now, gude save us!”—
“Is there not the Green Room, Grizel?”
“Troth is there, and it is in decent order too, though naebody has sleepit there since Dr. Heavysterne, and”—
“And what?”