I ken the word and amaist the fit o' them.

And I had heard tell 'at Maister Bruce was come to oor kirk.
Sae when a lassie spak till me 'at I never saw afore, I jist a kin' o' kent 'at it bude to be yersel'." All this was spoken in the same harsh voice, full of jars, as if ever driving against corners, and ready to break into a hoarse whisper.

But the woman held Annie's hand kindly, and yielded like a child to her guidance which was as careful as that of the angel that led Peter.
It was a new delight to Annie to have some one to whom she a child could be a kind of mother, towards whom she could fulfil a woman's highest calling--that of _ministering unto_; and it was with something of a sacred pride that she led her safe home, through the snowy streets, and down the steep path that led from the level of the bridge, with its three high stone arches, to the little meadow where her cottage stood.

Before they reached it, the blind woman, whose name was Tibbie (Isobel) Dyster, had put many questions to her, and without asking one indiscreet, had yet, by her gift for fitting and fusing things in the retort of her own brain, come to a tolerably correct knowledge of her character, circumstances, and history.
As soon as they entered the cottage, Tibbie was entirely at her ease.
The first thing she did was to lift the kettle from the fire, and feel the fire with her hands in order to find out in what condition it was.
She would not allow Annie to touch it: she could not trust the creature that had nothing but eyes to guide her, with such a delicate affair.
Her very hands looked blind and trying to see, as, with fine up-curved tips, they went wandering over the tops of the live peats.

She re-arranged them, put on some fresh pieces, blew a little at them all astray and to no purpose, was satisfied, coughed, and sank upon a chair, to put her bonnet off.