“No, I am not a Campbell,” said Kirsteen. It occurred to her for the first time that she must give some account of herself. “I’m going,” she said, “to take up—a situation.”
“I just thought that. ’Twill be some pingling trade like showing or hearing weans their letters, keeping ye in the house and on a seat the haill day long?”
“Something of that kind,” Kirsteen said.
“And you’re a country lass, and used to the air of the hills. Take you care—oh, take care! I had one mysel’—as fine a lass as ye would see, with roses on her cheeks, and eyes just glancing bright like your ain; and as weel and as hearty as could be. But before a twelvemonth was o’er, her mother and me we had to bring her hame.”
“Oh,” cried Kirsteen, “I am very sorry—but she’s maybe better.”
“Ay, she’s better,” said the carter. “Weel—wi’ her Faither which is in heaven.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, sorry!” cried Kirsteen, with tears in her eyes.
“Thank ye for that: ye have a look of her: I couldna pass ye by: but eh, for Gudesake if ye have faither and mother to break their hearts for you, take care.”
“You must have liked her well, well!” said the girl. Fatigue and languor in herself added to the keen sense of sympathy and pity. “I wish it had been me instead of her,” she said hastily.
“Eh,” said the man, “that’s a sair thing to say! Ye must be an orphan with none to set their hearts on you—but you’re young, poor thing, and there’s nae telling what good may come to ye. Ye must not let down your heart.”