"Well, my lass, there's nane will deny that Bryde was a little that way himself—he would aye have a quick eye for a likely lass from what I can mind."
"Well," said she, being very merry and bold, and showing herself before me, "am not I a likely lass, Hamish, my dear?"
Now the old folk will use that expression with a very definite meaning, and when I thought of that I was feeling my face smiling, and me trying not to, as I looked at the lass.
"Hamish," she cried, "did you ever look at a lass like that before—it is a wonder to me you are not married long ago," and then with a frown on her face, but half laughing yet, "I ken," she cried, "she was married already, poor Hamish—was it Belle?"
But I was thinking it was time to be putting an end to her daffing.
"Listen, my dear," said I; "I ken another likely lass."
"Oh?"
"Helen," said I.
"Likely," she cried—"likely, the likeliest lass I will ever be seeing,
Hamish—for a sister."
But for all that she would be jibing at Hugh and his marriage. "Hughie," she would cry, "the fine sunny days are passing. When I get a man I am thinking it will be half the joy of it to be out with him on the hills and among the trees, and maybe on the sea. You will be waiting till the rainy days come, and that will not be so lucky."