“You are very hard and cruel. You send me away almost broken-hearted. May I write to you?”
“If you’ll tell me about a’ the wonderfuls you see, I’ll be gey glad to hear from you.”
“Then farewell, my love! Do not forget me!”
“It’s not likely I’ll forget you,” and her voice trembled, as she whispered “Farewell!” and gave him her hand. He stooped, and kissed it. Then he turned away.
She watched him till in the dim distance she saw him raise his hat and then disappear. Still she stood, until the roll of the carriage wheels gradually became inaudible. Then she knew that she was weeping, and she wiped her eyes, and turned them upon the light in the cottage burning for her. And she thought tenderly of her lover, and whispered to her heart—“If he had only come back! I might hae given him a kiss. Puir laddie! Puir, dear laddie! His uncle has heard tell o’ the fisher-lassie, and he’s ta’en him awa’ from Christine—but he’s 84 his ain master—sae it’s his ain fault! Christine is o’er gude for anyone who can be wiled awa’ by man, or woman, or pleasure, or gold. I’ll be first, or I’ll be naething at a’!”
She found her father alone, and wide awake. “Where is Mither?” she asked.
“I got her to go to bed. She was weary and full o’ pain. Keep a close watch on your mither, Christine. The trouble in her heart grows warse, I fear. Wha was wi’ you in your hame-comin’?”
“Angus Ballister.”
“Weel, then?”
“It is the last time he will be wi’ me.”