“Andrew! Andrew!” she sighed, and was still in his arms.
“Winna ye, Dawtie?” he whispered.
“Wait,” she murmured; “wait.”
“I winna wait, Dawtie.”
“Wait till ye hear what they'll say the morn.”
“Dawtie, I'm ashamed o' ye. What care I, an' what daur ye care what they say. Are ye no the Lord's clean yowie? Gien ye care for what ony man thinks o' ye but the Lord himsel', ye're no a' His. Gien ye care for what I think o' ye, ither-like nor what He thinks, ye're no sae His as I maun hae ye afore we pairt company—which, please God, 'ill be on the ither side o' eternity.”
“But, An'rew, it winna do to say o' yer father's son 'at he took his wife frae the jail.”
“'Deed they s' say naething ither! What ither cam I for? Would ye hae me ashamed o' ane o' God's elec'—a lady o' the Lord's ain coort?”
“Eh, but I'm feart it's a' the compassion o' yer hert, sir. Ye wad fain mak' up to me for the disgrace. Ye could weel do wantin' me.”
“I winna say,” returned Andrew, “that I couldna live wantin' ye, for that wad be to say I wasna worth offerin' ye, and it would be to deny Him 'at made you and me for ane anither, but I wad have a some sair time! I'll jist speak to the minister to be ready the minute the Lord opens yer prison-door.”