"It's a great amoont; an' mair on ae side nor he'll weel bide.

It's sair eneuch, laird, whan we hae to gang at the Lord's call, but whan the messenger comes frae the laich yett (low gate), we maun jist lat gang an' forget.

But sae lang's he's a man, we maun do what we can--an' that's what we did last nicht; sae I'll rin an' get het watter." She did so, and they used every means they could think of for his recovery, but at length gave it up, heaped him over with blankets, for the last chance of spontaneous revival, and sitting down, awaited the slow-travelling, feeble dawn.
After they had sat in silence for nearly an hour, the laird spoke: "We'll read a psalm thegither, Grizzie," he said.
"Ay, du ye that, laird.

It'll haud them awa' for the time bein', though it can profit but little i' the him 'er en'." The laird drew from his pocket a small, much worn bible which had been his Marion's, and by the body of the dead sinner, in the heart of the howling storm and the waste of the night, his voice, trembling with a strange emotion, rose upborne upon the glorious words of the ninety-first psalm.
When he ended, they were aware that the storm had begun to yield, and by slow degrees it sank as the morning came on.

Till the first faintest glimmer of dawn began to appear nothing more was said between them.