She's aye fair to a' body, an' never thinks ill o' onybody 'at says the trowth--whan it's no for contrariness.

She says 'at a heap o' ill comes o' fowk no speykin' oot what they ken, or what they're thinkin', but aye guissin' at what they dinna ken, an' what ither fowk's thinkin'." "Ay!" said Nicie, "it wad be a gey cheenged warl' gien fowk gaed to my mither, an' did as she wad hae them.

She says fowk sud never tell but the ill they ken o' themsel's, an' the guid they ken o' ither fowk; an' that's jist the contrar', ye ken, missie, to what fowk maistly dis dee." A pause naturally followed, which Ginny broke.
"I don't think you told me the name of the book you were reading, Donal," she said.
"Gien ye wad sit doon a meenute, mem," returned Donal, "-- here's a bonnie gowany spot--I wad read a bit till ye, an' see gien ye likit it, afore I tellt ye the name o' 't." She dropped at once on the little gowany bed, gathered her frock about her ankles, and said, "Sit down, Nicie.

It's so kind of Donal to read something to us! I wonder what it's going to be." She uttered everything in a deliberate, old-fashioned way, with precise articulation, and a certain manner that an English mother would have called priggish, but which was only the outcome of Scotch stiffness, her father's rebukes, and her own sense of propriety.
Donal read the ballad of Kemp Owen.
"I think--I think--I don't think I understand it," said Ginevra.

"It is very dreadful, and--and--I don't know what to think.