Then she seated herself at the piano and began to sing a verse of an old Scots song which her grandmother had taught her:
'O mickle thinks my love of my beauty,
An' mickle thinks my love of my kin;
But little thinks my love I ken brawlie[A]
My tocher's[B] the jewel has charms for him.
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree,
It's a' for the honey he'll cherish the bee,
My laddie's so mickle in love wi' the siller[C]
He canna ha'e love to spare for me.'
'I don't really know, Cousin Aggie, what should be done with a girl like you.'
'Oh, I do, Cousin Gust.'
'Well?'
'Why, leave her alone.'
'Just so. You are very provoking, though I must allow you are pretty when you are provoking. But, really now, dear, I shall never marry until the day when'——
'When what?'
'When I marry you.'
'And you think that day will ever come?'