“I fear ’tis very clumsily done, sir,” said she.
“Nay, ’pon my soul,” answered Sir Hector ponderously gallant. “I protest ’tis of needlework the most excellent! My old coat will be endeared to me for the ... the sake o’ your bonny, white fingers! An’ noo, gin ye’re finished wi’t, I’ll get in till’t, for ’tis no juist proper tae sit here afore ye in my sark, ye ken.... Aha, Johnnie, is she no’ a graund lassie, as apt wi’ needle as wi’ boilin’ watter? A fine, sonsy lass——”
“Indeed,” answered Sir John gravely, “she is as up-standing and down-sitting a wench as——”
“Tush!” cried my Lady Herminia, flushing. “There is your ill-cobbled coat, Sir Hector. And now, I’ll be going.”
“Whaur to, lassie?”
“Home to my aunt, sir.”
“Aunt?” repeated Sir Hector at a loss, “but ’twas your grandmother last time, I mind.”
“And to-day ’tis my aunt, sir. And she a lone widow.”
“Aunt? Widow?” quoth Sir Hector. “Why then, ’tis no’ for the sake o’ a puir, auld, solitary, worn an’ woefu’ soldier-body wi’ ane leg i’ the grave as ye’re here, Rose? ’Tis no’ for the sake o’ lonesome Hector MacLean, whateffer?”
“Indeed but it is, sir!” she smiled. “To cook and care, and tend and mend for him. I shall come and keep house for you every day.”