The usual hallan, or passage, divided the but from the ben, and in the ben a great revolving thing, the warping-mill, half filled the room.

Between it and a pile of webs that obscured the light a little silent man was sitting on a box turning a handle.

His shoulders were almost as high as his ears, as if he had been caught forever in a storm, and though he was barely five and thirty, he had the tattered, dishonored beard of black and white that comes to none till the glory of life has gone.
Suddenly the smith appeared round the webs.

"Aaron," he said, awkwardly, "do you mind Jean Myles ?" The warper did not for a moment take his eyes off a contrivance with pirns in it that was climbing up and down the whirring mill.
"She's dead," he answered.
"She's dying," said the smith.
A thread broke, and Aaron had to rise to mend it.
"Stop the mill and listen," Auchterlonie begged him, but the warper returned to his seat and the mill again revolved.
"This is her dying words to you," continued the smith.

"Did you speak ?" "I didna, but I wish you would take your arm off the haik." "She's loath to die without seeing you.