‘Eh, the bonny little Phemy! I had ’maist forgotten her! Hoo is she, Kirsty?’
‘She’s weel—and verra weel,’ answered Kirsty; ‘she’s deid.’
‘Deid!’ echoed Gordon, with a cry, again raising himself on his elbow. ‘Surely it wasna—it wasna ’at the puir wee thing cudna forget me! The thing’s no possible! I wasna worth it!’
‘Na, na; it wasna ae grain that! Her deein had naething to du wi that—nor wi you in ony w’y. I dinna believe she was a hair waur for ony nonsense ye said til her—shame o’ ye as it was! She dee’d upo’ the Horn, ae awfu’ tempest o’ a nicht. She cudna hae suffert lang, puir thing! She hadna the stren’th to suffer muckle. Sae awa she gaed!—and Steenie efter her!’ added Kirsty in a lower tone, but Francis did not seem to hear, and said no more for awhile.
‘But I maun tell ye the trowth, Kirsty,’ he resumed: ‘forby yersel, there’s them ’at says I’m a cooard!’
‘I h’ard ae man say’t, only ane, and him only ance.’
‘And ye said til ’im, “Ay, I hae lang kenned that!”’
‘I tellt him whaever said it was a leear!’
‘But ye believt it yersel, Kirsty!’
‘Wad ye hae me leear and hypocrite forby, to ca’ fowk ill names for sayin what I believt mysel!’