“I’ll gang up to Kilbrachmont, if ye’re wearying on me, mother,” answered the little belle.
“Haud your peace, ye cuttie. Is that a way to answer your mother, and me slaving for your guid, nicht and day? But hear ye, Katie Stewart, I’ll no hae Willie Morison coming courting here; ae scone’s enow o’ a baking. Janet there is to be cried with Alick—what he could see in her, I canna tell—next Sabbath but twa; and though the Morisons are very decent folk, we’re sib enough wi’ ae wedding. So ye’ll mind what I say, if Willie Morison comes here at e’en.”
“I dinna ken what you mean, mother,” said Katie indignantly.
“I’ll warrant Katie thinks him no guid enough,” said Janet, with a sneer.
“Will ye mind your wark, ye taupie? What’s your business with Katie’s thoughts? And let me never mair see you sit there with a red face, Katie Stewart, and tell a lie under my very e’en. I’ll no thole’t. Janet, redd up that table. Merran, you’re wanted out in the East Park; if Robbie and you canna be done with that pickle taties the day, ye’ll ne’er make saut to your kail; and now I’m gaun in to Anster mysel’—see ye pit some birr in your fingers the time I’m away.”
“Never you heed my mother, Katie,” said Janet benevolently, as Mrs Stewart’s crimson plaid began to disappear over the field. “She says aye a hantle mair than she means; and Willie may come the nicht, for a’ that.”
“Willie may come! And do you think I care if he never crossed Anster Brig again?” exclaimed Katie with burning indignation.
“Weel, I wouldna say. He’s a bonnie lad,” said Janet, as she lifted the shining plates into the lower shelf of the oak aumrie. “And if you dinna care, Katie, what gars ye have such a red face?”
“It’s the fire,” murmured Katie, with sudden humiliation; for her cheeks indeed were burning—alas! as the brave Sir Alexander’s name could never make them burn.
“Weel, he’s to sail in three weeks, and he’ll be a fule if he troubles his head about a disdainfu’ thing that wouldna stand up for him, puir chield. The first night ever Alick came after me, I wouldna have held my tongue and heard onybody speak ill of him; and yesterday’s no the first day—no by mony a Sabbath in the kirk, and mony a night at hame—that Willie Morison has gien weary looks at you.”