‘Naething,’ answered Phemy, with strength and decision.
‘No gien it was ’at naething wud ever gar him merry ye?’
‘That he micht weel say, for he winna need garrin!—But he never said it, and ye needna try to threpe it upo’ me!’ she added, in a tone that showed the very idea too painful.
‘He did say’t, Phemy.’
‘Wha tellt ye? It’s lees! Somebody’s leein!’
‘He said it til me himsel. Never a lee has onybody had a chance o’ puttin intil the tale!’
‘He never said it, Kirsty!’ cried Phemy, her cheeks now glowing, now pale as death. ‘He daurna!’
‘He daured; and he daured to me! He said, “I wudna merry her gien baith o’ ye gaed doon upon yer knees to me!”’
‘Ye maun hae sair angert him, Kirsty, or he wudna hae said it! Of coorse he wasna to be guidit by you! He cudna hae meaned what he said! He wad never hae said it to me! I wuss wi’ a’ my hert I hadna latten ye til ’im! Ye hae ruined a’!’
‘Ye never loot me gang, Phemy! It was my business to gang.’