‘Weel, and that’s a’ richt! But ye maunna ca’ me yer bonny man, Kirsty; for there’s but ae bonny man, and we’re a’ brithers and sisters. He said it himsel!’
‘That’s verra true, Steenie; but whiles ye’re sae like him I canna help ca’in ye by his name.’
‘Dinna du ’t again, Kirsty. I canna bide it. I’m no bonny! No but I wud sair like to be bonny—bonny like him, Kirsty!—Did ye ever hear tell ’at he had a father? I h’ard a man ance say ’at he hed. Sic a bonny man as that father maun be! Jist think o’ his haein a son like him!— Dauvid Barclay maun be richt sair disappintit wi’ sic a son as me—and him sic a man himsel! What for is’t, Kirsty?’
‘That’ll be ane o’ the secrets the bonny man’s gaein to tell his ain fowk whan he gets them hame wi’ him!’
‘His ain fowk, Kirsty?’
‘Ay, siclike’s you and me. Whan we gang hame, he’ll tell ’s a’ aboot a heap o’ things we wad fain ken.’
‘His ain fowk! His ain fowk!’ Steenie went on for a while murmuring to himself at intervals. At last he said,
‘What maks them his ain fowk, Kirsty?’
‘What maks me your fowk, Steenie?’ she rejoined.
‘That’s easy to tell! It’s ’cause we hae the same father and mither; I hae aye kenned that!’ answered Steenie with a laugh.