tellin' ye, sir, 'at it's o' nae sma' consequence to the toon 'at
the drucken craturs sud fill themsels wi' dacency -- an' that's what I
see till. Gang na to the magistrate, sir; but as sune's ye hae
gotten testimony -- guid testimony though, sir -- 'at there's been
disorder or immorawlity i' my hoose, come ye to me, an' I'll gie ye
my han' to paper on't this meenute, 'at I'll gie up my chop, an'
lea' yer perris -- an' may ye sune get a better i' my place. Sir, I'm
like a mither to the puir bodies! An' gin ye drive them to Jock
Thamson's, or Jeemie Deuk's, it'll be just like -- savin' the word, I
dinna inten' 't for sweirin', guid kens! -- I say it'll just be
dammin' them afore their time, like the puir deils. Hech! but it'll
come sune eneuch, an' they're muckle to be peetied!"

"And when those victims of your vile ministrations," said the
clergyman, again mounting his wooden horse, and setting it rocking,
"find themselves where there will be no whisky to refresh them,
where do you think you will be, Mistress Croale?"

"Whaur the Lord wulls," answered the woman. "Whaur that may be, I
confess I'm whiles laith to think. Only gien I was you, Maister
Sclater, I wad think twise afore I made ill waur."

"But hear me, Mistress Croale: it's not your besotted customers only
I have to care for. Your soul is as precious in my sight as any of
which I shall have to render an account."

"As Mistress Bonniman's, for enstance?" suggested Mrs. Croale,
interrogatively, and with just the least trace of pawkiness in the
tone.