It's just fine! I'd like to see Sir Walter Scott!" "He's dead," said Mary, "dead long ago.

But he was a good as well as a great man." "'E must 'a bin," agreed Mrs.Twitt; "I'm right sorry 'e's dead.

Some folks die as is bound to be missed, an' some folks lives on as one 'ud be glad to see in their long 'ome peaceful at rest, forbye their bein' born so grumblesome like.

Twitt 'ud be at 'is best composin' a hepitaph for Mr.Arbroath now!" As she said this the corners of her mouth, which usually drooped in somewhat lachrymose lines, went up in a whimsical smile.

And feeling that she had launched a shaft of witticism which could not fail to reach its mark, she trotted off on further gossiping errands bent.
The tenor of her conversation was repeated to Angus Reay that afternoon when he arrived, as was often his custom, for what was ostensibly "a chat with old David," but what was really a silent, watchful worship of Mary.
"She is a dear old soul!" he said, "and Twitt is a rough diamond of British honesty.