"They should not have let her have her wish; it can only do her harm." "That is another curious thing," replied the doctor.

"It does not seem to have done her harm; rather it has turned her from being a dour, silent crittur into a talkative one, and that, I take it, is a sign of grace." He sighed, and added: "Not that I can get her to talk of herself and her mother.

(There is a mystery about them, you understand.) No, the obstinate brat will tell me nothing on that subject; instead of answering my questions she asks questions of me--an endless rush of questions, and all about Ballingall.

How did I know he was dying?
When you put your fingers on their wrist, what is it you count?
which is the place where the lungs are?
when you tap their chest what do you listen for?
are they not dying as long as they can rise now and then, and dress and go out?
when they are really dying do they always know it themselves?
If they don't know it, is that a sign that they are not so ill as you think them?
When they don't know they are dying, is it best to keep it from them in case they should scream with terror?
and so on in a spate of questions, till I called her the Longer Catechism." "And only morbid curiosity prompted her ?" "Nothing else," said the confident doctor; "if there had been anything else I should have found it out, you may be sure.

However, unhealthily minded though she be, the women who took their turn at Ballingall's bedside were glad of her help." "The more shame to them," McLean remarked warmly; but the doctor would let no one, save himself, miscall the women of Thrums.
"Ca' canny," he retorted.