Weel, a' the time I was repeating the ballad, I saw, in the changing expression o' Margery's countenance, that there was a tender struggle going on in her heart; but when I came to the last verse, she could restrain her feelings no longer, but grat outright, as if Jeanie had been her ain sister. I was rather on, Richard, for the greeting mysel; but, affecting an indifference I did not feel, I says to her, as she was in the act o' wiping her eyes wi' her pocket-napkin—
"Would ye greet for me, Margery, were I dying?"
"You're very like a dying person, or you're naething," says she.
"There are few lovers to be met wi'," says I, "like Willie Grahame and Jeanie Sanderson—their devotedness is rare."
"Ye'll be judging frae yersel, Ise warrant," says Margery.
"Oh," says I, "I do not doubt but I could mak as guid a sweetheart as Willie Grahame, would onybody try me. But I've a secret to tell ye, woman," continued I, summoning up courage to mak a confession.
"Women canna keep secrets," says she; "so ye had better no trust me wi' it."
A long silence was the upshot o' this, and we sauntered on, as if we had been two walking statues, till we came within sight o' the manse. Margery could not but notice my perplexity; for I looked round and round about me a thousand times, for fear o' listeners, and hemmed again and again, as the words mounted to my lips, and swooned away in a burning blush on my face.
"What was it ye were gaun to tell me?" at last says she. "It maun be some great secret, surely, that ye're in such terror to disclose it."
"Weel, Margery," says I, in the greatest fervour, locking her hand passionately in baith o' mine—"if ye will have it—I love you!"