“Ow ay; ye’re jist like a’ the men I ever cam across!” rejoined Marion smiling; “—easy taen wi’ the skin-side!”
“Doobtless: the Makker has taen a heap o’ pains wi the skin!—Ony gait, yon lassie’s ane amang ten thoosan! Jeemie sud be on his k-nees til her this vera moment—no sitting there glowerin as gien his twa een war twa bullets—fired aff, but never won oot o’ their barrels!”
“Hoot! wad ye hae him gang on his k-nees til ony but the Ane!”
“Aye wad I—til ony ane that’s nearer His likness nor himsel—and that ane’s oor Isy!—I wadna won’er, Jeemie, gien ye war fit for a drive the morn! In that case, I s’ caw ye doon to the toon, and lat ye say yer ain say til her.”
James did not sleep much that night, and nevertheless was greatly better the next day—indeed almost well.
Before noon they were at the soutar’s door. The soutar opened it himself, and took the minister straight to the ben-end of the house, where Isy sat alone. She rose, and with downcast eyes went to meet him.
“Isy,” he faltered, “can ye forgie me? And wull ye merry me as sene’s ever we can be cried?—I’m as ashamed o’ mysel as even ye would hae me!”
“Ye haena sae muckle to be ashamet o’ as I hae, sir: it was a’ my wyte!”
“And syne no to haud my face til’t!—Isy, I hae been a scoonrel til ye! I’m that disgustit at mysel ’at I canna luik ye i’ the face!”
“Ye didna ken whaur I was! I ran awa that naebody micht ken.”