Mistress Barclay looked down on Phemy with such a face of loving benignity that the poor miserable girl threw her arms round her neck, and laid her head on her bosom. Instinctively the mother began to hush and soothe her, and in a moment more was singing a lullaby to her. Phemy fell fast asleep. Then Kirsty told what she had done, and while she spoke, the mother sat silent brooding, and hushing, and thinking.
CHAPTER XVIII
PHEMY’S CHAMPION
When she had told all, Kirsty rose, and laying aside the stocking, said,
‘I maun awa to Weelset, mother. I promised the bairn I would lat Francie ken whaur she was, and gie him the chance o’ sayin his say til her.’
‘Verra weel, lassie! ye ken what ye’re aboot, and I s’ no interfere wi’ ye. But, eh, ye’ll be tired afore ye win to yer bed!’
‘I’ll no tramp it, mother; I’ll tak the gray mear.’
‘She’s gey and fresh, lassie; ye maun be on yer guaird.’
‘A’ the better!’ returned Kirsty. ‘To hear ye, mother, a body wud think I cudna ride!’
‘Forbid it, bairn! Yer father says, man or wuman, there’s no ane i’ the countryside like ye upo’ beast-back.’
‘They tak to me, the craturs! It was themsels learnt me to ride!’ answered Kirsty, as she took a riding whip from the wall, and went out of the kitchen.