“Nay,” I answered, “I have been at Ardarroch with my father and mother for two days. And to-morrow I must return to the people among whom I labour.”
She stole a quick glance at me from beneath her long dark lashes. There was infinite teasing mischief in the flashing of her eyes.
“You have an empty manse by the waterside of Dee. Ye will doubtless be looking for some douce country lass to fill it.”
The words were kindly enough spoken, yet in the very frankness of the speech I recognised the distance she was putting between us. But I had not been trained in the school of quick retorts nor of the light debate of maidens. For all that I had a will of mine own, and would not permit that any woman born of woman should play cat’s-cradle with Quintin MacClellan.
“Lady,” said I, “there is, indeed, an empty manse down yonder by the Dee, and I am looking for one to fill it. But I will have none who cannot love me for myself, and also who will not love the work to which I have set my hand.”
She held up her hand in quick merriment.
“Do not be afraid,” she cried, gaily. “I was not thinking of making you an offer!”
And then she laughed so mirthsome a peal that all against my will I was forced to join her.
And this mended matters wonderfully. For after that, though I had my own troubles with her and my heart-breaks as all shall hear, yet never was she again the haughty maiden of the first sermon and the midsummer kirk door.
“They tell me that once ye brought me all the way from the Bennan-top to the tower of Lochinvar, where our Auntie Jean was biding?”