"Aye, I've come home."
"And brought thy shame with thee!"
"Shame?" said the other quickly. "What shame? He married me, and this is his boy." And as she straightened up, the cloak fell apart and disclosed the child. She spoke boldly, but her eyes and her face were not so brave as her speech.
"Married ye?" said the old woman, with a grim laugh that was half sob and half anger. "I know better. The likes o' him doesna marry the likes o' you."
Holding the sleeping child in her one arm, the girl fumbled in her bodice and plucked out a paper.
"There's my lines," she said angrily.
The old woman made no attempt to read it, but shook her head again, and said bitterly:
"The likes o' him doesna marry the likes o' you, my lass."
"He married me as soon as we got to London."
But the old woman only shook her head, and asked, in the tone of one using an irrefutable argument: