I have had twal lang years sitting on this box to think it out.

I blame none but mysel'." "Then you'll have pity on Jean in her sair need," said the smith.

He read slowly the first part of the letter, but Aaron made no comment, and the mill had not stopped for a moment.
"She says," the smith proceeded, doggedly--"she says to say to you, 'Aaron Latta, do you mind yon day at Inverquharity and the cushie doos ?'" Only the monotonous whirr of the mill replied.
"She says, 'Aaron Latta, do you mind that Jean Myles was ower heavy for you to lift?
Oh, Aaron, you could lift me so pitiful easy now.'" Another thread broke and the warper rose with sudden fury.
"Now that you've eased your conscience, smith," he said, fiercely, "make your feet your friend." "I'll do so," Auchterlonie answered, laying the letter on the webs, "but I leave this ahint me." "Wap it in the fire." "If that's to be done, you do it yoursel'.

Aaron, she treated you ill, but--" "There's the door, smith." The smith walked away, and had only gone a few steps when he heard the whirr of the mill again.

He went back to the door.
"She's dying, man!" he cried.
"Let her die!" answered Aaron.
In an hour the sensational news was through half of Thrums, of which Monypenny may be regarded as a broken piece, left behind, like the dot of quicksilver in the tube, to show how high the town once rose.