In course of time poor Will became "sick unto death," and the minister came to see him.

Thinking him in really a good frame of mind, the minister asked him, in presence of the laird and others, if there were not one _great_ thought which was ever to him the highest consolation in his hour of trouble.

"Ou ay," gasped the sufferer, "Lord be thankit, a' the bunkers are fu'!" The following anecdote is told regarding the late Lord Dundrennan:--A half silly basket-woman passing down his avenue at Compstone one day, he met her, and said, "My good woman, there's no road this way." "Na, sir," she said, "I think ye're wrang there; I think it's a most beautifu' road." These poor creatures have invariably a great delight in attending funerals.

In many country places hardly a funeral ever took place without the attendance of the parochial idiot.

It seemed almost a necessary association; and such attendance seemed to constitute the great delight of those creatures.