“She is going to wear blacks for the full year.”
“There’s nae occasion for her to cast them. She can put on a white gown for the ceremony. I suppose they will hae the Domine come to the house and marry them.”
“You are going ayont a’ probabilities, Jessy. Christine willna marry for a full year. I am not sure she will ever marry.”
“She be to marry! Of course she’ll marry! She canna mak’ a leeving oot a’ a few bits o’ poetry! She be to marry! All women hae to marry. Where is she going to bide?”
“Just where she is.”
“I’ll not hear tell o’ that. The house is yours. After the widow’s death, the home comes to the auldest son. That’s the law o’ Scotland, and I’m vera sure it’s the law o’ England likewise. It’s the right law. When folks break it, the break is for sorrow. There was Robert Toddie, who left his house and land to his daughter Jean, and she married her lad, and took him to live there—never heeding her brother’s right—and baith her bairn and hersel’ died within a twelvemonth, and sae Robert 299 cam’ to his ain, and he’s living in the Toddie house this day. Why dinna ye speak to me?”
“I hae heard ye tell the Toddie story till it’s worn awa’.”
“How was the house looking?”
“Clean and bright as a new-made pin.”
“That’s right! I’ll just tak’ the bairns and go up there! One room is a’ she’s needing, and I canna spare her that vera lang.”