ude preserve 's!' exclaimed Mrs. Falconer in her turn: 'it's a
wumman.'

Poor deluded Shargar, thinking himself safer under any form than that
which he actually bore, attempted no protest against the mistake. But,
indeed, he was incapable of speech. The two women flew upon him to drag
him out of bed. Then first recovering his powers of motion, he sprung up
in an agony of terror, and darted out between them, overturning Betty in
his course.

'Ye rouch limmer!' cried Betty, from the floor. 'Ye lang-leggit jaud!'
she added, as she rose--and at the same moment Shargar banged the
street-door behind him in his terror--'I wat ye dinna carry yer coats
ower syde (too long)!'

For Shargar, having discovered that the way to get the most warmth from
Robert's great-grandfather's kilt was to wear it in the manner for which
it had been fabricated, was in the habit of fastening it round his waist
before he got into bed; and the eye of Betty, as she fell, had caught
the swing of this portion of his attire.

But poor Mrs. Falconer, with sunken head, walked out of the garret in
the silence of despair. She went slowly down the steep stair, supporting
herself against the wall, her round-toed shoes creaking solemnly as she
went, took refuge in the ga'le-room, and burst into a violent fit of
weeping. For such depravity she was not prepared. What a terrible curse
hung over her family! Surely they were all reprobate from the womb, not
one elected for salvation from the guilt of Adam's fall, and therefore
abandoned to Satan as his natural prey, to be led captive of him at his
will. She threw herself on her knees at the side of the bed, and prayed
heart-brokenly. Betty heard her as she limped past the door on her way
back to her kitchen.

Meantime Shargar had rushed across the next street on his bare feet
into the Crookit Wynd, terrifying poor old Kirstan Peerie, the divisions
betwixt the compartments of whose memory had broken down, into the
exclamation to her next neighbour, Tam Rhin, with whom she was trying to
gossip:

'Eh, Tammas! that'll be ane o' the slauchtert at Culloden.'

He never stopped till he reached his mother's deserted abode--strange
instinct! There he ran to earth like a hunted fox. Rushing at the door,
forgetful of everything but refuge, he found it unlocked, and closing it
behind him, stood panting like the hart that has found the water-brooks.
The owner had looked in one day to see whether the place was worth
repair