But Vara only replied, "Do you think so, Cleg?"
"Guidnicht, Vara," said Cleg, soberly.
And with that he took his way sedately over the fields and disappeared into the coppice towards the house of Barnbogle. Vara watched him out of sight; but now not so wistfully. There was a proud little expression in her face. She looked almost conscious of her growing beauty.
"He maun think an awfu' deal o' me to say that!" she told herself.
When she went back into the house Mirren Douglas was just putting on her milking apron. She pretended to busy herself with the strings.
"Cleg doesna improve muckle in looks," she said; "he's no great beauty, is he noo?"
She spoke with intent to see what Vara would reply. For, after her sorrow, the old Mirren was springing up again like roses in an Indian summer.
"I never think muckle aboot his looks when I see him," said Vara quickly. "If he had looked like an angel, he couldna hae been kinder to me."
"Hoots, lassie," said Mirren hastily, "I was only jokin' ye. He is growin' a fine, personable lad, and when he has some flesh on his banes and a wee tait o' mair growth aboot his face, he'll do verra weel."
"He does very weel as he is, I think," said the loyal Vara, who was not yet appeased. "He has chappit the firewood, fetched the water, brocht in the peats and stalled the kye, soopit the yaird—and he is coming back the morn to clean the lum."