"Jist a wee while."
"Aye, I know it wasn't long."
"Did she suffer much?" I asked.
"She didn't suffer aany at all," he said, "she jist withered like th' laves on th' threes."
"She jist hankered t' go," Mary added.
"Wan night whin Mary was asleep," Jamie continued, "she read over again yer letther—th' wan where ye wor spakin' so much about fishin'."
"Aye," I said, "I had just been appointed missionary to a place called the Bowery, in New York, and I wrote her that I was no longer her plowman, but her fisher of men."
"Och, maan, if ye cud haave heard her laugh over th' different kinds ov fishes ye wor catchin'! Iv'ry day for weeks she read it an' laughed an' cried over it. That night she says t' me, 'Jamie,' says she, 'I don't care s' much fur fishers ov men as I do for th' plowman.' 'Why?' says I.
"'Because,' says she, 'a gey good voice an' nice clothes will catch men, an' wimen too, but it takes brains t' plow up th' superstitions ov th' ignorant.'
"'There's somethin' in that,' says I.