Perhaps she never looked more innocently happy or more beautiful than she did at that moment.
“Like dew on the gowans lying
Was the fa’ o’ her fairy feet;
And like winds in summer sighing,
Her voice was low and sweet.”
But when she noticed the pallor on her lovers cheek she ceased singing, and advanced more quickly towards him.
“Oh, my darling,” she cried, “how pale you are! You are ill! You must come in. Mind, I am still your nursie.”
“No, no; I am better here. I have the fresh air. But I am only a little upset, you know.”
“And what upset you, dear Reginald?”
She had seated herself by his side. She had taken his hand, and had placed two white wee fingers on his pulse.
“I’ll tell you, Annie mine—”
“Yes, I’m yours, and yours only, and ever shall be.”
“Craig Nicol has been here, and we have quarrelled. He has cursed and abused me. He says I have stolen your heart from him, and now he must for ever hate me.”