“Aye, but your aunt, the widow-body—she’ll be the fly in the ointment, lassie——”
“Indeed and she’s no such thing, sir, as you shall see, for I mean to bring her with me sometimes.”
“Hoot-toot—and she a widow? Na’, na’, lassie, I’ll be safer wi’ Wully Tamson.”
“Sir Hector MacLean,” quoth my lady with her most determined air, “since you are such a very old, poor, solitary soldier-body, I intend to do my best for your future happiness ... with my aunt’s aid.”
“Save’s a’!” gasped Sir Hector, “an’ she a widow!”
“My aunt will, I hope, assist in my labour for your comfort and welfare.”
“Aweel!” sighed Sir Hector, “I can run as fast as ony man. I’ve braw, lang legs, y’ ken.”
“Though one of ’em is in the grave, sir!” she reminded him. Here, at a sign from Penelope, my lady curtsied demurely and followed the old woman out of the room.
“Losh!” exclaimed Sir Hector, “yon Rose hath an air aboot her that gi’es a cautious man tae think.”
“Very much so!” answered Sir John. “As you once said, she is not exactly an ordinary lass.”