I laid a hand upon hers as I replied: "Now, little Mistress Curiosity, do not ask too much."
She drew her hand away quickly, and brushed it with the other as though to rid it of some defilement. I fear the taunting name had given her umbrage.
"I think you are a licht-o'-love," she said.
"Mary!" I exclaimed, offended in my turn. "What right have you to say such a thing?"
"Weel," she answered, "what else would you ha'e me think. Ye lo'ed Margaret Wilson: ye tell me ye've seen a bonnier lass amang the hills, and when I found you on the moors you were repeatin' a lassie's name ower an' ower again--and her name wasna Margaret."
"I was repeating the name of a lassie?" I exclaimed dubiously.
"Ay, ye were that," she made answer, "or ye wadna be here the day. It was that made me tak' peety on you. I was sorry for the lassie, whaever she micht be, and I thocht if I had a lad o' my ain I should like him to be croonin' ower my name, as you were daein' hers. So I ran hame an' fetched faither, an' we cairried ye to Daldowie."
"And what was the name of the lassie?" I asked, looking at her eagerly.
"Oh I ye kept sayin'--Mary--Mary--Mary--in a kind o' lament."
My heart bounded: there was riot in my veins. "It was your name, Mary--yours--and none other. There is no other Mary in my life."