‘He promised to merry ye?’ she said.
‘I didna say that; I said he was gaein to promise the nicht. And noo he’ll be gane, and never a word said!’
‘He promised, did he, ’at he would promise the nicht?—Eh, Francie! Francie! ye’re no yer father’s son!—He promised to promise to merry ye! Eh, ye puir gowk o’ a bonny lassie!’
‘Gien I met him the nicht—ay, it cam to that.’
All Kirsty’s inborn motherhood awoke. She turned to her, and, clasping the silly thing in her arms, cried out—
‘Puir wee dauty! Gien he hae a hert ony bigger nor Tod Lowrie’s (the fox’s) ain, he’ll come to ye to the Knowe, and say what he has to say!’
‘He winna ken whaur I am!’ answered Phemy with an agonized burst of dry sobbing.
‘Will he no? I s’ see to that—and this verra nicht!’ exclaimed Kirsty. ‘I’ll gie him ilka chance o’ doin the richt thing!’
‘But he’ll be angert at me!’
‘What for? Did he tell ye no to tell?’