She brought to his recollection the story of the stolen sow, and mentioned how much pain and vexation it had given her.

Like other philosophers, she remarked that the world grew worse daily; and, like other parents, that the bairns got out of her guiding, and neglected the old gipsy regulations, which commanded them to respect in their depredations the property of their benefactors.
The end of all this was an inquiry what money the farmer had about him; and an urgent request, or command, that he would make her his purse-keeper, since the bairns, as she called her sons, would be soon home.

The poor farmer made a virtue of necessity, told his story, and surrendered his gold to Jean's custody.

She made him put a few shillings in his pocket, observing, it would excite suspicion should he be found travelling altogether penniless.
'This arrangement being made, the farmer lay down on a sort of shake-down, as the Scotch call it, or bed-clothes disposed upon some straw, but, as will easily be believed, slept not.
'About midnight the gang returned, with various articles of plunder, and talked over their exploits in language which made the farmer tremble.
They were not long in discovering they had a guest, and demanded of Jean whom she had got there.
'"E'en the winsome gudeman of Lochside, poor body," replied Jean; "he's been at Newcastle seeking for siller to pay his rent, honest man, but deil-be-lickit he's been able to gather in, and sae he's gaun e'en hame wi' a toom purse and a sair heart." "'That may be, Jean," replied one of the banditti, "but we maun ripe his pouches a bit, and see if the tale be true or no." Jean set up her throat in exclamations against this breach of hospitality, but without producing any change in their determination.

The farmer soon heard their stifled whispers and light steps by his bedside, and understood they were rummaging his clothes.