"Am I not the daft lassie?" said she, and started to the singing of merry airs; but before we saw the rowan-tree that grows on the face of the black hill, her songs were sad again.
"He will be lonesome away there, Bryde," said she, looking back.
"He will be looking for a lass one of these nights," said I, a little angry, "and there are bonny lasses here and there, between here and Scaurdale."
"I am wishing, Hamish, I could be at the herding and the kelp-burning with the other lasses," said she, looking at me, and there was a little smile at her lips, and a kind of eagerness I did not understand.
"Do you think Bryde will be looking at these wenches," said I in great scorn (for I feared he did).
"No, Hamish, no," she cried amidst her laughter, and I understood then.
"Mistress Margaret," said I, "I am not a match for you in wit, it seems, but since we are agreed he canna just be suited with these lassies, there will just be two left by your way of it."
"Between here and Scaurdale, Hamish," said she, "it is your own words I am giving you."
"Bryde is a fine lad," said I, "but he's like to be spoiled, and," said
I, "your mother will have told you he has not even a name." At that
the dull anger I had been choking down most of that day broke over me.
"Damn the whole affair," said I, and dismounted.
When I lifted her from her horse, she was laughing and blinking tears from her lashes, and she put her arms very tightly about my neck.