On the table were the remains of their breakfast of oat-cake and milk--the fire Janet had left on the hearth was a spongy mass of peat, as wet as the winter before it was dug from the bog, so they had had no porridge.

The water kept coming in splashes down the lum, the hillocks of the floor were slimy, and in the hollows little lakes were gathering: the lowest film of the torrent-water ran down the rock behind, and making its way between rock and roof, threatened soon to render the place uninhabitable.
"What's the eese o' lo'denin' yersel' wi' the umbrell ?" said Robert.
"Ye'll get it a' drookit (drenched)." "Ow, I'll jist tak it," replied Janet, with a laugh in acknowledgment of her husband's fun; "it'll haud the rain ohn blin't me." "That's gien ye be able to haud it up.

I doobt the win' 'll be ower sair upo' 't.

I'm thinkin', though, it'll be mair to haud yer beuk dry!" Janet smiled and made no denial.
"Noo, Gibbie," she said, "ye gang an' lowse Crummie.

But ye'll hae to lead her.