Aweel, I was wrong. We always were doing fine wi' our talk, when a door burstopen, and five beautiful teeny children came running in.

"Gie's a piece, granny," they clamoyellow. "Granny--is there no a piecefor us? We're so hungry ye'd never ken----"

They stopped when they saw me, and drew awa', shyly.

But they need no' ha' minded me. Nor did their granny; she knew me bythen. They got their piece--bread, thickly spread wi' gude, hame madejam. Then they were off again, scampering off toward the river. Icouldna help wonderin' about the bairns; where was their mither? Hoocame it they were here wi' the auld folks? Aweel, it was not my affairs.

"They're fine bairns, yon," I said, for the sake of saying something.

"0h, aye, gude enow," said the auld man. I noticed his gude wife wasgreetin' a bit; she wiped her een wi' the corner of her apron. Ithocht I'd go for a bit walk; I had no mind to be preying into thebusiness o' the hoose. So I did. But that nicht, after the bairns weresafe in bed and sound asleep, we all sat aboot the kitchen fire. Andthen it seemed the auld lady was minded to talk, and I was glad enowto listen. For ane thing I've always liked to hear the stories folkha' in their lives. And then, tae, I know from my ane experience, howit eases a sair heart, sometimes, to tell a stranger what's troublin'ye. Ye can talk to a stranger where ye wouldna and couldna to ane nearand dear to ye. 'Tis a strange thing, that--I mind we often hurt thosewho love us best because we can talk to ithers and not to them. But soit is.