“Gien onything i’ my pooer wud mak the grief lichter upo’ ye, Eppy,” he said, “ye hae but to name ’t! I’m no gauin’ to ask ye to merry me, for that I ken ye dinna care aboot; but gien I micht be luikit upo’ as a freen’, if no to you, yet to yours—alloot onyw’y to help i’ yer trible, I mean—I’m ready to lay me i’ the dirt afore ye. I hae nae care for mysel’ ony mair, an’ maun do something for somebody—an’ wha sae soon as yersel’, Eppy!”
For sole answer, Eppy went on crying. She was far from happy. She had nearly persuaded herself that all was over between her and lord Forgue, and almost she could, but for shame, have allowed Kennedy to comfort her as an old friend. Everything in her mind was so confused, and everything around her so miserable, that she could but cry. She continued crying, and as they were in a walled lane into which no windows looked, Kennedy, in the simplicity of his heart, and the desire to comfort her who little from him deserved comfort, came up to her, and putting his arm round her, said again,
“Dinna be feart o’ me, Eppy. I’m a man ower sair-hertit to do ye ony hurt. It’s no as thinkin’ ye my ain, Eppy, I wud preshume to du onything for ye, but as an auld freen’, fain to tak the dog aff o’ ye. Are ye in want o’ onything? Ye maun hae a heap o’ trible, I weel ken, wi’ yer gran’father’s mischance, an’ it’s easy to un’erstan’ ’at things may well be turnin’ scarce aboot ye; but be sure o’ this, that as lang ’s my mither has onything, she’ll be blyth to share the same wi’ you an’ yours.”
He said his mother, but she had nothing save what he provided her with.
“I thank ye, Stephen,” said Eppy, touched with his goodness; “but there’s nae necessity; we hae plenty.”
She moved on, her apron still to her eyes. Kennedy followed her.
“Gien the yoong lord hae wranged ye ony gait,” he said from behind her, “an’ gien there be ony amen’s ye wad hae o’ him,—”
She turned with a quickness that was fierce, and in the dim light Kennedy saw her eyes blazing.
“I want naething frae your han’, Stephen Kennedy,” she said. “My lord’s naething to you—nor yet muckle to me!” she added, with sudden reaction and an outburst of self-pity, and again fell a weeping—and sobbing now.
With the timidity of a strong man before the girl he loves and therefore fears, Kennedy once more tried to comfort her, wiping her eyes with her apron. While he did so, a man, turning a corner quickly, came almost upon them. He started back, then came nearer, looked hard at them, and spoke. It was lord Forgue.