r, the lazy, weirdless trail. But it's the
bairns I'm sorra for. Ye'll see them i' the mornin' gaen awa' berfit
to the skule, an' a seerip piece i' their hand, wi' fient o' hand or
face o' them washen, an' their claes as greasy as a cadger's pooch.
It's a winder to me 'at Moses disna tak' to drink."

"He has himsel' to blame," brook in the Gairner's wife. "She cam' o'
an ill breed. He kent what she was afore he married her. Ye canna
mak' a silk purse oot o' a soo's lug. Eh, na! Gin ye want a guid
sheaf, gang aye to a guid stook."

"You're richt there, Mistress Winton," said Mysie. "Tak' a cat o' your
ain kind an' it'll no' scart ye, my mither used to say; an' I'm shure
I've seen that come true of'en, of'en."

"They tell me," said Mistress Kenawee, "that Moses gie's her
seven-an'-twinty shillin's every week to keep her hoose wi'. What she
does wi't it beats me to mak' oot. Mony a mither wud be gled o' the
half o't i' the noo, an' wud feed an' deed half a dizzen bairns on't."

"But Moses is a fooshinless, hingin'-aboot kind o' a whaup," says I.
"The blame's mibby no' a' on ae side o' the hoose. There's lots o'
your braw billies ye wudna need to follow ower their ain doorstap.
When there's din an' dirt i' the hoose, the wife aye gets the dirdum.
Moses has ower muckle to say aboot the wife. She may be ill, but he's
no' the pairty to saw't like neep seed ower a' the countryside."

"You're richt there, Bawbie," said Mistress Winton. "I've tell'd Moses
that till's face afore the day. They're scarce o' noos that tells
their father was hanged."

"He's an ill man that blackgairds his wife, altho' she were the
deevil's sister," says Mysie; an' even Ribekka gae her moo a dicht, an'
whispered to hersel', "Eh, aye, that's a troo sayin'."

"I'll no' say a wird again' men," said Mistress Mikaver, "for Wellum
was a guid man to me"; an' she took a lang breth throo her nose, an'
lookit up at the picture abune the chumla. "I think I've seen Moses
the waur o' a dram; but he looks a quiet eneuch stock," gays she.

"He's some like my man," I strak in. "He's gey an' of'en oot aboot
when he shud be at hame. There's no' muckle hertnin' for a woman when
she's left to trauchle day oot day in wi' seven litlans, an' a
thrawn-gabbit footer o' a man juist comin' in at diet times, rennyin'
aboot first ae thing an' syne anither, threapin' that his porritch is
no' half boiled, simmerin' an' winterin' aboot haen to wait a meenit o