All the house was careful the next morning that Phemy should not be disturbed; and when at length the poor child appeared, looking as if her colour was not ‘ingrain,’ and so had been washed out by her tears, Kirsty made haste to get her a nice breakfast, and would answer none of her questions until she had made a proper meal.
‘Noo, Kirsty,’ said Phemy at last, ‘ye maun tell me what he said whan ye loot him ken ’at I cudna win til him ’cause ye wudna lat me!’
‘He saidna muckle to that. I dinna think he had been sair missin ye.’
‘I see ye’re no gaein to tell me the trowth, Kirsty! I ken by mysel he maun hae been missin me dreidfu’!’
‘Ye can jeedge nae man by yersel, Phemy. Men’s no like hiz lass-fowk!’
Phemy laughed superior.
‘What ken ye aboot men, Kirsty? There never cam a man near ye, i’ the w’y o’ makin up til ye!’
‘I’m no preten’in to ony exparience,’ returned Kirsty; ‘I wad only hae ye tak coonsel wi’ common sense. Is ’t likly, Phemy, ’at a man wi gran’ relations, and gran’ notions, a man wi’ a fouth o’ grit leddies in ’s acquantance to mak a fule o’ him and themsels thegither, special noo ’at he’s an offisher i’ the Company’s service—is ’t ony gait likly, I say, ’at he sud be as muckle ta’en up wi’ a wee bit cuintry lassie as she cudna but be wi’ him?’
‘Noo, Kirsty, ye jist needna gang aboot to gar me mistrust ane wha’s the verra mirror o’ a’ knichtly coortesy,’ rejoined Phemy, speaking out of the high-flown, thin atmosphere she thought the region of poetry, ‘for ye canna! Naething ever onybody said cud gar me think different o’ him!’
‘Nor naething ever he said himsel?’ asked Kirsty.