“Indeed and I will, and that gaily,” I cried, delighted at the prospect.
“And you will tell me all your exploits and where you have been and what you have seen, and where you are going and what you are going to do, and be sure there will be one Scots heart thinking of you (besides Isobel, I daresay), and I declare to you this one will follow every league upon the map, saying 'the blate lad's there to-day,' 'the blate lad's to be here at noon to-morrow.' Is it a bargain? Because you know I will write to you—but oh! I forgot; what of the priest? Not for worlds would I have him know that I kept up a correspondence with his secretary. That is bad.”
She gazed rather expectantly at me as if looking for a suggestion, but the problem was beyond me, and she sighed.
“Of course his reverence need not know anything about it,” she said then.
“Certainly,” I acquiesced, jumping at so obvious a solution. “I will never mention to him anything about it.”
“But how will I get your letters and how will you get mine without his suspecting something?”
“Oh, but he cannot suspect.”
“What, and he a priest, too! It's his trade, Mr. Greig, and this Father Hamilton would spoil all if he knew we were indulging ourselves so innocently. What you must do is to send your letters to me in a way that I shall think of before you leave and I shall answer in the same way. But never a word, remember, to his reverence; I depend on your honour for that.”
As I was going down the stair a little later, she leaned over the bannister and cried after me:
“Mr. Greig,” said she, “ye needna' be sae hainin' wi' your red shoes when ye're traivellin' in the coach. I would be greatly pleased to be thinkin' of you as traivellin' in them a' the time.”