‘I wadna be girdin at ye, Francie, but that I care ower muckle aboot ye to lat ye think I haud the same opingon o’ ye ’at ye hae o’ yersel,’ answered the girl, who went on with her knitting as she spoke.
‘Ye’ll never believe a body!’ he rejoined, and turned half away. ‘I canna think what gars me keep comin to see ye! Ye haena ae guid word to gie a body!’
‘It’s nane ye s’ get frae me, the gait ye’re gaein, Francie! Ye think a heap ower muckle o’ yersel. What ye expec, may some day a’ come true, but ye hae gien nobody a richt to expec it alang wi’ ye, and I canna think, gien ye war fair to yersel, ye wad coont yersel ane it was to be expeckit o’!’
‘I tauld ye sae, Kirsty! Ye never lay ony weicht upo what a body says!’
‘That depen’s upo the body. Did ye never hear maister Craig p’int oot the differ atween believin a body and believin in a body, Francie?’
‘No—and I dinna care.’
‘I wudna like ye to gang awa thinking I misdoobtit yer word, Francie! I believe onything ye tell me, as far as I think ye ken, but maybe no sae far as ye think ye ken. I believe ye, but I confess I dinna believe in ye—yet. What hae ye ever dune to gie a body ony richt to believe in ye? Ye’re a guid rider, and a guid shot for a laddie, and ye rin middlin fest—I canna say like a deer, for I reckon I cud lick ye mysel at rinnin! But, efter and a’,—’
‘Wha’s braggin noo, Kirsty?’ cried the boy, with a touch of not ill-humoured triumph.
‘Me,’ answered Kirsty; ‘—and I’ll do what I brag o’!’ she added, throwing her stocking on the patch of green sward about the stone, and starting to her feet with a laugh. ‘Is ’t to be uphill or alang?’
They were near the foot of a hill to whose top went the heather, but along whose base, between the heather and the bogland below, lay an irregular belt of moss and grass, pretty clear of stones. The boy did not seem eager to accept the challenge.