“I do,” he said, at last.
A weight sprung off my heart.
“Uncle, did I ever tell ye a lee?”
“Never that I ken.”
“Never—never! I kenned he wud come back!” said another voice.
It was Aunt Tibbie, and she took me in her arms. “I believed ye to be innocent, Sandy; and sae did Rab, and a many more,” she said. “But where ha’ ye been?”
“Ye’ll no believe me, gin’ I tell ye. I don’t wonder at that. Ye can’t believe it, mebbe, but I’ll tell ye.”
“It’s naething wrong, Sandy?” said Aunt Tibbie.
“Nae, naething but laziness, an’ I couldna help that. I’ve been asleep—in a traunce—in a stupor—like a toad in a stane, for a’ these years, an’ have come to life this verra day!”
Then I told them all about it; and sic things as traunces—though not, maybe, to last as long as mine—had been heard o’ before, and they could not but believe it; but they were awa’ again to Rab’s wedding, frae which they’d come hame only to fetch a silver cup, that was to drink the healths o’ the bride and bridegroom.