“I think you have the largest feet in all broad Scotland,” says she.
“Troth, they are no’ very small,” said I, looking down.
“Ah, poor Catriona!” cries Miss Grant.
And I could but stare upon her; for though I now see very well what she was driving at (and perhaps some justification for the same), I was never swift at the uptake in such flimsy talk.
“Ah well, Mr. David,” she said, “it goes sore against my conscience, but I see I shall have to be your speaking-board. She shall know you came to her straight upon the news of her imprisonment; she shall know you would not pause to eat; and of our conversation she shall hear just so much as I think convenient for a maid of her age and inexperience. Believe me, you will be in that way much better served than you could serve yourself, for I will keep the big feet out of the platter.”
“You know where she is, then?” I exclaimed.
“That I do, Mr. David, and will never tell,” said she.
“Why that?” I asked.
“Well,” she said, “I am a good friend, as you will soon discover; and the chief of those that I am friend to is my papa. I assure you, you will never heat nor melt me out of that, so you may spare me your sheep’s eyes; and adieu to your David-Balfourship for the now.”
“But there is yet one thing more,” I cried. “There is one thing that must be stopped, being mere ruin to herself, and to me too.”