``Ower mony of them,'' raising the corner of her
checked apron to her eyes, ``e'en ower mony of
them, Mr Croftangry.---Och, ay---there is the puir
Highland creatures frae Glensbee, that cam down
for the harvest, and are lying wi' the fever---five
shillings to them, and half-a-crown to Bessie MacEvoy,
whose coodman, puir creature, died of the
frost, being a shairman, for a' the whisky he could
drink to keep it out o' his stamoch---and------''
But she suddenly interrupted the bead-roll of her
proposed charities, and assuming a very sage look,
and primming up her little chattering mouth, she
went on in a different tone---``But, och, Mr Croftangry,
bethink ye whether ye will not need a' this
siller yoursell, and maybe look back and think lang
for ha'en kiven it away, whilk is a creat sin to forthink
a wark o' charity, and also is unlucky, and
moreover is not the thought of a shentleman's son
like yoursell, dear. And I say this, that ye may
think a bit, for your mother's son kens that ye are
no so careful as you should be of the gear, and I
hae tauld ye of it before, jewel.''
I assured her I could easily spare the money,
without risk of future repentance; and she went
on to infer, that, in such a case, ``Mr Croftangry
had grown a rich man in foreign parts, and was
free of his troubles with messengers and sheriff-officers,
and siclike scum of the earth, and Shanet
MacEvoy's mother's daughter be a blithe woman
to hear it.
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