‘It’s naething but ye’re eenvious o’ me, Kirsty, ’cause ye canna get him yersel! He wud never luik at a lass like you!’
‘It’s weel a’body sees na wi’ the same een, Phemy! Gien I had yer Francie i’ the parritch-pat, I wudna pike him oot, but fling frae me pat and parritch. For a’ that, I hae a haill side o’ my hert saft til him: my father and his lo’ed like brithers.’
‘That canna be, Kirsty—and it’s no like ye to blaw! Your father was a common so’dier and his was cornel o’ the regiment!’
‘Allooin!’ was all Kirsty’s answer. Phemy betook herself to entreaty.
‘Lat me gang, Kirsty! Please! I’ll gang doon o’ my knees til ye! I canna bide him to think I’ve played him fause.’
‘He’ll play you fause, my lamb, whatever ye du or he think! It maks my hert sair to ken ’at no guid will your hert get o’ his.—He s’ no see ye the nicht, ony gait!’
Phemy uttered a childish howl, but immediately choked it with a proud sob.
‘Ye’re hurtin me, Kirsty!’ she said, after a minute or so of silence. ‘Lat me doon, and I’ll gang straucht hame to my father. I promise ye.’
‘I’ll set ye doon,’ answered Kirsty, ‘but ye maun come hame to my mither.’
‘What’ll my father think?’