She stood distressed, and made no answer.
“Hoot, lassie, tell me!” insisted Peter; “I haena been an ill maister til ye, have I?”
“Sir, ye hae been like the maister o’ a’ til me! But I canna—that is, I maunna—or raither, I’m determined no to explain the thing til onybody.”
“Thoucht ye my wife was feart the minister micht fa’ in love wi ye?”
“Weel, sir, there micht hae been something like that intil ’t! But I wantit sair to win at my bairn again; for i’ that trance I lay in sae lang, I saw or h’ard something I took for an intimation that he was alive, and no that far awa.—And—wad ye believe’t, sir?—i’ this vera hoose I fand him, and here I hae him, and I’m jist as happy the noo as I was meeserable afore! Is ’t ill o’ me at I canna be sorry ony mair?”
“Na, na,” interposed the soutar: “whan the Lord wad lift the burden, it wad be baith senseless and thankless to grup at it! In His name lat it gang, lass!”
“And noo,” said Mr. Blatherwick, again taking up his probe, “ye hae but ae thing left to confess—and that’s wha’s the father o’ ’im!”
“Na, I canna dee that, sir; it’s enough that I have disgracet myself! You wouldn’t have me disgrace another as well! What good would that be?”
“It wad help ye beir the disgrace.”
“Na, no a hair, sir; he cudna stan’ the disgrace half sae weel ’s me! I reckon the man the waiker vessel, sir; the woman has her bairn to fend for, and that taks her aff o’ the shame!”