“Catriona?” said I. It seemed that was the first and last word of my eloquence.
“You will be glad to see me again?” says she.
“And I think that is an idle word,” said I. “We are too deep friends to make speech upon such trifles.”
“Is she not the girl of all the world?” she cried again. “I was never knowing such a girl so honest and so beautiful.”
“And yet she cared no more for Alpin than what she did for a kale-stock,” said I.
“Ah, she will say so indeed!” cries Catriona. “Yet it was for the name and the gentle kind blood that she took me up and was so good to me.”
“Well, I will tell you why it was,” said I. “There are all sorts of people’s faces in this world. There is Barbara’s face, that everyone must look at and admire, and think her a fine, brave, merry girl. And then there is your face, which is quite different—I never knew how different till to-day. You cannot see yourself, and that is why you do not understand; but it was for the love of your face that she took you up and was so good to you. And everybody in the world would do the same.”
“Everybody?” says she.
“Every living soul!” said I.
“Ah, then, that will be why the soldiers at the castle took me up!” she cried.