she wad never fin' the weicht o' 't; but na, na! nane o' 't for
her! She's ane 'at maun tak her ain gait, say the ither thing wha
likes."

It was Wattie Witherspail who spoke--a thin shaving of a man,
with a deep, harsh, indeed startling voice.

"An' what ailed her at a stane?" returned the voice of Jonathan
Auldbuird, the sexton. "--Nae doobt it wad be the expense?"

"Amna I tellin' ye what it was? Deil a bit o' the expense cam intil
the calcalation! The auld maiden's nane sae close as fowk 'at disna
ken her wad mak her oot. I ken her weel. She wadna hae a stane
laid upon her as gien she wanted to hand her doon, puir thing! She
said, says she, 'The yerd's eneuch upo' the tap o' her, wantin'
that!'"

"It micht be some sair, she wad be thinkin' doobtless, for sic a
waik worn cratur to lift whan the trump was blawn," said the sexton,
with the feeble laugh of one who doubts the reception of his wit.

"Weel, I div whiles think," responded Wattie,--but it was impossible
from his tone to tell whether or not he spoke in earnest,--"'at
maybe my boxies is a wheen ower weel made for the use they're
pitten till. They sudna be that ill to rive--gien a' be true 'at
the minister says. Ye see, we dinna ken whan that day may come,
an' there may na be time for the wat an' the worm to ca (drive)
the boords apairt."

"Hoots, man! it's no your lang nails nor yet yer heidit screws 'll