CHAPTER XVII.
HENRY HERNBANE'S COURTSHIP
.png)
ET me see, whare wis I at? Maister Fleming reminds me that I have been makin' digressions. Weel, that's true—and nae doot yer critic will say this is a gey reel-ral autobiography; but life itsel' is unco reel-ral whiles, and it wud ill-become an honest wumman, charged as I am wi' the moral oversicht and godly upbringin' o' a bursar, to mak' things straicht when they should be crooket, or smooth when they should be rough, simply for the sake o' effect; na, na, we 'll leave that to novelist-bodies wha's professed business it is to lee. The wheels o' real life dinna rin on rails like the steam coach or the tramway-car. They hae their ups and doons, and if they whiles stick in a dub, or rin into a sheuch, we maun e'en bide till they get oot before we can expect to mak' progress forret.
Noo, I admit the truth o' what Maister Fleming says, that there's still a hiawtis in my story between the time we leeved i' the Bell-o'-the-Brae and oor removal to George Street; but nae wumman likes to be hurried, and in this respect I'm just like the lave o' my sex—nevertheless, I'm comin' to the point in my ain wye.
I have already telt ye hoo Babie Brewster, my mither's sister-in-law, nearly robbed the hoose during a time o' sair
