“She doesn’t seem to have much to say to us now, mother,” said Mary.
“Kirsteen, you should not be so proud. You will be a finer lady than ever your mother was, with a carriage and horses of your own, and no doubt everything that heart can desire; for an auld man is far more silly than a young one.”
Kirsteen gave the wool a jerk which tangled it wildly. “Mother, I just wonder what you are all havering about,” she said.
“Kirsteen, I’m well used to rude speaking,” cried the mother, ready to cry at a moment’s notice; “but not from my own bairns.”
“Oh, mother, I beg your pardon. It was not you that was havering. Dinna speak to me, for I cannot bear it. My heart is just like to break.”
“With pleasure?” said Mary in her soft tones.
Kirsteen darted a glance of fire at her calm sister, but turned nervously to her occupation again and answered nothing. She had enough to do with her yarn which, in sympathy with her confused thoughts, had twisted itself in every possible way and refused to be disentangled. Her mother remarked the tremor of her hands.
“Ye have got the hank into a terrible tangle, and what are ye trembling at, Kirsteen—is it the cold?”
“I’m not trembling, mother,” said Kirsteen.
“Do ye think I am blind or doited and cannot see? Na, I’m a weak woman, sore held down with many infirmities; but I’m thankful to say my eyes are as good as ever they were. Ye’re all trembling, Kirsteen; is it the cold?”