She rose to go. She was trembling very much, and could hardly utter the words.
“You are very kind, and I thank you; but—you know I am not fit. An ignorant country girl—you have said so yourself.”
“Shall I tell you when I thought so, Shenac? Do you mind the night that I brought little Flora home, crying with the cold? It was the first time I saw your face. Do you mind how you comforted Flora, and put the little lads to shame for having left her? And then you thanked me, and asked me to sit down. And do you mind how you made pancakes for supper, and never let one of them burn, though you were listening all the time to Hamish and me? I remember everything that happened that night, Shenac—how you put away the things, and made a new band for the mother’s wheel, and took up the lost loops in little Flora’s stocking. Then you helped the little lads with their tables, and kept Dan in order, listening all the time to your brother and me; and, best of all, you bade me be sure and come again. Have you forgotten, Shenac?”
“It was for the sake of Hamish,” said Shenac, dropping her head; but she raised it again quickly. “That does not make any difference.”
“Listen. That night, as I went over the fields to Angus Dhu’s, I said to myself that if ever I grew strong and well again, if ever I should live to have a kirk and a manse of my own—was I too bold, Shenac?—I said to myself you should help me to do my work in them as I ought.”
Shenac shook her head.
“It was not a wise thought. You little know how unfit I was then, how unfit I am now.”
“Say that you do not care for me, Shenac,” said Mr Stewart gravely.
“No, I cannot say that; it would not be true. I mean, that has nothing to do with my being fit.”
Mr Stewart thought it had a great deal to do with it, but he did not say so.