‘Jist a guid lickin,’ she answered.
‘Ha, ha!’ laughed Phemy hysterically. ‘I tellt ye ye was leein! Ye hae been naething but leein—a’ for fun, of coorse, I ken that—to mak a fule o’ me for bein fleyt!’
Despair, for a moment, seemed to overwhelm Kirsty. Was it for this she had so wounded her own soul! How was she to make the poor child understand? She lifted up her heart in silence. At last she said,—
‘Ye winna see mair o’ him this year or twa onygait, I’m thinkin! Gien ever ye get a scart o’ ’s pen, it’ll surprise me. But gien ever ye hae the chance, which may God forbid, tell him I said I had gien him his licks, and daured him to come and deny’t to my face. He winna du that, Phemy! He kens ower weel I wad jist gie him them again!’
‘He wud kill ye, Kirsty! You gie him his licks!’
‘He micht kill me, but he’d hae a pairt o’ his licks first!—And noo gien ye dinna believe me I winna answer a single question mair ye put to me. I hae been tellin ye—no God’s trowth, it’s true, but the deevil’s—and it’s no use, for ye winna believe a word o’ ’t!’
Phemy rose up a pygmy Fury.
‘And ye laid han’ to cheek o’ that king o’ men, Kirsty Barclay? Lord, haud me ohn killt her! Little hauds me frae riven ye to bits wi’ my twa han’s!’
‘I laidna han’ to cheek o’ Francie Gordon, Phemy; I jist throosh him wi’ his father’s ain ridin whup ’at my hert’s like to brak to think o’ ’t. I doobt he’ll carry the marks til’s grave!’
Kirsty broke into a convulsion of silent sobs and tears.