‘He cam to me o’ the Hornside, whaur I sat weyvin my stockin, ower the bog on ’s powny—a richt bonny thing, and clever—a new ane he’s gotten frae ’s mither. And it’s no the first time he’s been owre there to see me sin’ he cam hame!’
‘Whatfor gaed he there? My door’s aye been open till ’s father’s son!’
‘He kenned whaur he was likest to see me: it was me he wantit.’
‘He wantit you, did he? An’ he’s been mair nor ance efter ye?—Whatfor didna ye tell me afore, Kirsty?’
‘We war bairns thegither, ye ken, father, and I never ance thoucht the thing worth fashin ye aboot till the day. We’ve aye been used to Francie comin and gaein! I never tellt my mither onything he said, and I tell her a’thing worth tellin, and mony a thing forby. I aye leuch at him as I wud at a bairn till the day. He spak straucht oot the day, and I did the same, and angert him; and syne he angert me.’
‘And whatfor are ye tellin me the noo?’
‘’Cause it cam intil my heid ’at maybe it would be better—no ’at it maks ony differ I can see.’
During this conversation Marion was washing the supper-things, putting them away, and making general preparation for bed. She heard every word, and went about her work softly that she might hear, never opening her mouth to speak.
‘There’s something ye want to tell me and dinna like, lassie!’ said David. ‘Gien ye be feart at yer father, gang til yer mither.’
‘Feart at my father! I wad be, gien I hed onything to be ashamet o’. Syne I micht gang to my mither, I daur say—I dinna ken.’