“Christie is to cut it,” said Shenac Bhan, laughing, and holding the wool-shears towards Mrs More. “I must do it, Hamish; it takes such a time to keep it decently neat. My mother does not care, and why should you?”
“Whisht, Hamish,” said Shenac Dhu, “you’re going to quote Saint Paul and Saint Peter about a woman’s hair being a covering and a glory. Don’t fash yourself. Why, she would deserve to be a Scots worthy more than George Wishart, or than the woman who was drowned even, if she were to do it!”
“You had your own cut,” said Shenac Bhan, looking at her cousin with some surprise. “Why should I not do the same?”
“You are not me. Everybody has not my strength of mind,” said Shenac Dhu, nodding gravely.
“Toch! you cut yours that it might grow long and thick like our Shenac’s,” said Dan, who had been with them for some time. “Think of your hair, and look at this.” And he lifted the fair curls admiringly.
Shenac Bhan laughed.
“It’s an awful bother, Dan.”
“But it would be a pity to lose it. What a lot of it there is!” And the boy walked round his sister, touching it as he went.
“She never meant to do it; but after that she could not,” said Shenac Dhu, pretending to whisper.
“Our Shenac never says what she doesn’t mean,” said Dan hotly.