‘I winna gang!’ cried Phemy, whose Scotch had returned with her tears.
‘Ye are gaein,’ returned Kirsty dryly; ‘—at least I’m takin ye, and that’s neist best.’
‘What for? I never did ye an ill turn ’at I ken o’!’ said Phemy, and burst afresh into tears of self-pity and sense of wrong.
‘Na, my bonny doo,’ answered Kirsty, ‘ye never did me ony ill turn! It wasna in ye. But that’s the less rizzon ’at I sudna du you a guid ane. And yer father has been like the Bountiful himsel to me! It’s no muckle I can du for you or for him, but there’s ae thing I’m set upo’, and that’s haudin ye frae Francie Gordon the nicht. He’ll be awa the morn!’
‘Wha tellt ye that?’ returned Phemy with a start.
‘Jist yer ain aunt, honest woman!’ answered Kirsty, ‘and sair she grat as she telled me, but it wasna at his gaein!’
‘She micht hae held the tongue o’ her till he was gane! What was there to greit aboot!’
‘Maybe she thocht o’ her sister’s bairn in a tribble ’at silence wadna hide!’ answered Kirsty. ‘Ye haena a notion, lassie, what ye’re duin wi’ yersel! But my mither ’ll lat ye ken, sae that ye gangna blinlins intil the tod’s hole.’
‘Ye dinna ken Frank, or ye wudna speyk o’ ’im that gait!’
‘I ken him ower weel to trust you til him.’