"Weel, ye see, Tibbie," answered Thomas, "it's nearhan' as ill for the
like o' us to unnerstan' your blin'ness as it may be for you to
unnerstan' oor sicht."
"Deed maybe neyther o' 's kens muckle aboot oor ain gift either o'
sicht or blin'ness.--Say onything ye like, gin ye dinna tell me, as the
bairn here ance did, that I cudna ken what the licht was. I kenna what
yer sicht may be, and I'm thinkin' I care as little. But weel ken I
what the licht is."
"Tibbie, dinna be ill-nater'd, like me. Ye hae no call to that same.
I'm tryin' to answer your queston. And gin ye interrup' me again, I'll
rise an' gang hame."
"Say awa', Thamas. Never heed me. I'm some cankert whiles. I ken that
weel eneuch."
"Ye hae nae business to be cankert, Tibbie?"
"Nae mair nor ither fowk."
"Less, Tibbie; less, woman."
"Hoo mak' ye that oot?" asked Tibbie, defensively.
"Ye dinna see the things to anger ye that ither fowk sees.--As I cam'
doon the street this minute, I cam' upo' twa laddies--ye ken
them--they're twins--ane o' them cripple--"
"Ay, that was Murdoch Malison's wark!" interposed Tibbie, with
indignant reminiscence.
"The man's been sorry for't this mony a day," said Thomas; "sae we
maunna come ower't again, Tibbie.
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