“Don’t say afterwards it was my fault.”
“It was just your fault, Shenac Dhu, you envious, spiteful thing,” exclaimed the indignant Dan.
“Nonsense, Cousin Shenac.—Be quiet, Dan. She had nothing to do with it. It has been a trouble all summer, and I’m glad to be rid of it. I only wish I could spin it, like the wool.”
“What a lot of it there is!” And Shenac Dhu stooped down and lifted a long tress or two tenderly, as if they had life.
“What will you do with it, Shenac?”
“Burn it, since I cannot make stockings of it. Put them in here.” And she held up her apron.
“Will you give your hair to me, Shenac?” asked Mrs More.
“What can you do with it?” asked Shenac in some surprise. “Surely I’ll give it to you, so that I hear no more about it.” The curls were carefully gathered, and tied in Mrs More’s handkerchief.
“Shenac Bhan,” said the other Shenac solemnly, “you look like a shorn sheep. I shall never see you again without thinking of the young woman tied to the stake on the sands, and the sea coming up and up—”
“Shenac, be quiet. It is sinful to speak lightly of so solemn a thing,” said her sister gravely.