Kate Dol Beag, as ye ken, was a lass at her service at Scaurdale, a bonny dark ruddy lass and keen for the marrying, and the lad she had her eye on was the serving-man, McCook. And when these two were in the stackyard at Scaurdale and well hidden behind the ricks on the next night, she yoked on him.
"It is not me you are liking," said she, and put his hand from her neck, "for last night you did not come home and me waiting."
"I could not be coming home, my lass," said he, "for the young mistress made me stop at my mother's, and Bryde McBride, the sailor, rode with her."
"Ay," said Kate, "she came home like a lass that goes to her grave-claes instead o' her braws, and never a word from her, but a white hue round her lips and her eyes staring. . . . Did you go to my father's," said Kate, for she was of a jealous nature.
"No, I was at McKelvie's for a wee after I would be with my mother, and
I was thinking Dol Beag your father would be there too."
"There was no lass you were with, then?"—this a little more softly and her body came closer to his.
"There was no lass that I saw," said McCook, "but there were many people at the inn," said he.
"Give me the news, then," she cried, and put an arm round his neck now that she kent he would not have been with another woman. And then he told her how the South End folk would be at the smuggling on the night of the wedding, and all that he had heard, meaning no ill, and the lass was laughing, and her kindness came back to her.
"I will not have been good to you," said she, and lay back against the stack, "and I am wearying this long while for your arms round me, and the jagging of your hair on my face."
And as she sat there was more of her ankle showing than she would maybe be liking in strange company.