"Ye'll be dottlet yersel' gien ye live lang eneuch!" "I'm thinkin'," said Andrew, "but I dinna ken--'at it maun be a man's ain wyte gien age maks him dottlet.

Gien he's aye been haudin' by the trowth, I dinna think he'll fin' the trowth, hasna hauden by him .-- But what I was lauchin' at was the thoucht o' onybody bein' auld up there.
We'll a' be yoong there, lass!" "It sall be as the Lord wulls," returned his wife.
"It sall.

We want nae mair; an' eh, we want nae less!" responded her husband.
So the evening wore away.

The talk was to the very mind of Donal, who never loved wisdom so much as when she appeared in peasant-garb.

In that garb he had first known her, and in the form of his mother.
"I won'er," said Doory at length, "'at yoong Eppy 's no puttin' in her appearance! I was sure o' her the nicht: she hasna been near 's a' the week!" The cobbler turned to Donal to explain.