“Do'ee move away a wee,” she implored.
“Not till yo've showed me,” he said, relentless.
“I canna, Davie,” she cried with laughing, petulance.
“Yes, yo' can, lass.”
“Tak' your hands away, then.”
“Nay; not till yo've showed me.”
A pause.
“Do'ee, Davie,” she supplicated.
And—
“Do'ee,” he pleaded.