Katharine could by no means comprehend this, and was particularly concerned about it at this time, as she had something she wished to reveal to him. Walter appeared gloomy and discontented all that day. The corn was ripe, but not a sheaf of it cut down;--the hay was still standing on the meadow, the lint was to pull, the potatoes to raise, the tar to bring home, and the sheep to smear; and there was no one left to do all this but he and his two boys. The gudewife, who used to bustle about and do much household work, was confined to her room. His daughter's character, her demeanour, and even her humanity, were become somewhat doubtful. Walter was truly in what he termed _a pickled priminary_.
Katharine, being still debarred all access to her mother, began to dread that she would be obliged to leave her father's house; and, in case of a last extremity, she bethought her of sounding the dispositions of old Nanny. She was a character not easily to be comprehended. She spoke much to herself, but little to any other person--worked so hard that she seldom looked up, and all the while sung scraps of old songs and ballads, the import of which it was impossible to understand; but she often chaunted these with a pathos that seemed to flow from the heart, and that never failed to affect the hearer. She wore a russet worsted gown, clouted shoes, and a quoif, or mutch, upon her head, that was crimped and plaited so close around her face that very little of the latter was visible. In this guise was Nanny, toiling hard and singing her mournful ditty, when Katharine came in and placed herself on a seat by her side.
"Nanny, this seems to be more than ordinary a busy day with you; pray, what is all this baking and boiling for?"
"Dear bairn, dear bairn, what do I ken--the like o' me maun do as we're bidden--guests are coming, my bairn--O, ay--there's mony a braw an' bonny lad coming this way--mony a ane that will gaur a young thing's e'en stand i' back water--
"They are coming! they are coming! Alak! an' wae's me! Though the sword be in the hand, Yet the tear's in the e'e.
Is there blood in the moorlands Where the wild burnies rin? Or what gars the water Wind reid down the lin?
O billy, dear billy, Your boding let be, For it's nought but the reid lift That dazzles your e'e."