“Ay, and tyne his as weel!” he returned. “Tyne what’s yer ain to tyne, wuman—and that’s no your sowl, nor yet Jamie’s! He’s no yours to save, but ye’re deein a’ ye can to destroy him—and aiblins ye’ll succeed! for ye wad sen’ him straucht awa to hell for the sake o’ a guid name—a lee! a hypocrisy!—Oot upo ye for a Christian mither, Mirran!—Jamie, I’m awa to the toon, upo my twa feet, for the mere’s cripple: the vera deil’s i’ the hoose and the stable and a’, it would seem!—I’m awa to fess Isy hame! And, Jamie, ye’ll jist tell her afore me and yer mother, that as sene ’s ye’re able to crawl to the kirk wi’ her, ye’ll merry her afore the warl’, and tak her hame to the manse wi’ ye!”
“Hoot, Peter! Wad ye disgrace him afore a’ the beggars o’ Tiltowie?”
“Ay, and afore God, that kens a’thing ohn onybody tellt him! Han’s and hert I s’ be clear o’ this abomination!”
“Merry a wuman ’at was ta’en wi’ a wat finger!—a maiden that never said na!—Merry a lass that’s nae maiden, nor ever will be!—Hoots!”
“And wha’s to blame for that?”
“Hersel.”
“Jeemie! Jist Jeemie!—I’m fair scunnert at ye, Mirran!—Oot o’ my sicht, I tell ye!—Lord, I kenna hoo I’m to win ower ’t!—No to a’ eternity, I doobt!”
He turned from her with a tearing groan, and went feeling for the open door, like one struck blind.
“Oh, father, father!” cried James, “forgie my mither afore ye gang, or my hert ’ill brak. It’s the awfu’est thing o’ ony to see you twa striven!”
“She’s no sorry, no ae bit sorry!” said Peter.