Between bites he was singing dolefully to the tune of "Annie Laurie" one of the ditties of his quondam Sunday School: "The Boorjoys' brays are bonnie, Too-roo-ra-roo-raloo, But the Workers of the World Wull gar them a' look blue, And droon them in the sea, And--for bonnie Annie Laurie I'll lay me down and dee." "Losh, laddie," she cried, "that's cauld food for the stomach.

Come indoors about midday and I'll gie ye a plate o' broth!" The Die-Hard saluted and continued on the turnip.
She took the Auchenlochan road across the Garple bridge, for that was the best road to the Mains, and by it Dickson and the others might be returning.

Her equanimity at all seasons was like a Turk's, and she would not have admitted that anything mortal had power to upset or excite her: nevertheless it was a fast-beating heart that she now bore beneath her Sunday jacket.

Great events, she felt, were on the eve of happening, and of them she was a part.

Dickson's anxiety was hers, to bring things to a business-like conclusion.