But aboot yoursel', Aunty Jean?" I ventured, in order to stir her to
reckless speech, which was like fox-hunting to me.

"Wha? Me? Certes, no! I gat the stoor oot o' my e'en braw an' early. I
took the cure-all betimes, as the lairds tak' their mornin' o' French
brandy. When Tam Lindsay gaed aff wi' his fleein' flagarie o' a
muckle-tochered Crawford lass, _I_ vowed that I wad hae dune wi' men.
An' so I had!

"Whenever a loon cam' here in his best breeks, and a hingin' look in the
e'e o' the craitur that meant courtin', faith, I juist set the dowgs on
the scullion. I keepit a fearsome tyke on purpose, wi' a jaw ontill him
like Jonah's whale. Aye, aye, mony's the braw lad that has gane doon
that brae, wi' Auld Noll ruggin' an' reevin' at the hinderlands o'
him--bonny it was to see!"

"Did ye think, as ye watched them gang, that it was your Lindsay, Aunty
Jean?" I asked; for, indeed, her well-going talk eased my heart in the
midst of so many troubles. For I declare that during these thirty years
in Scotland, and especially in the Glenkens, folk had almost forgotten
the way to laugh.

"Na, na, callant," so she would say to me in return, "I ne'er blamed him
sair ava'. Tam Lindsay was never sair fashed wi' sense a' the days o'
his life--at least no to hurt him, ony mair nor yersel', as yin micht
say. It was the Crawford woman and her weel-feathered nest that led him
awa', like a bit silly cuddie wi' a carrot afore his nose. But I'll
never deny the randy that she was clever; for she took the craitur's
size at the first look, as neat as if she had been measurin' him for a
suit o' claes. But she did what I never did, or my name had been Jean
Lindsay this day. The Lord in His mercy be thankit continually that it
is as it is, and that I hae nae auld dotard, grumphin' an' snortin' at
the chimley lug. She cuitled Tam Lindsay an' flairdied him an' spak' him
fair, till the poor fathom o' pump water thocht himsel' the brawest lad
in braid Scotland. Faith, I wadna sae bemean mysel' to get the king oot
o' Whitehall--wha they tell me is no that ill to get, gin yin had the
chance--and in muckle the same way as Tam Lindsay. Oh, what a set o'
blind, brainless, handless, guid-for-naethings are men!"

"It was with that ye began, Aunty Jean," I said.

"Aye, an' I shall end wi' it too," she answered. "I'm no theology
learned, but it looks terribly like as if the rib story were gye near
the truth. For the poorest o' weemen can mak' a great m