“She is maybe dying.”
“I am feared she is.”
“Then if I wait till she dies——”
“Be quiet, Cluny! How dare you calculate anything for my life, on my mither’s death? Do you think I would walk from her grave to the altar to marry you? I would hae to lose every gude sense, and every good feeling I have, ere I could be sae wicked.”
“Do you mean that after your mither’s death, you will still keep me waiting?”
“You know right well, Cluny, what our folk would say, if I didna observe the set time of mourning.”
“Great Scot! That’s a full year!”
“Ay. If a bairn dies in our village, its folk wear blacks for a year. Would I grudge a year’s respect for my mither’s memory? Forbye there would be my poor heart-broken feyther, and a’ his needs and griefs.”
“And the bairn, too, I suppose?”