By one of the Authors of the “Odd Volume.”
“Hout, lassie,” said the wily Dame Seton to her daughter, “dinna blear your een wi’ greeting. What would honest Maister Binks say, if he were to come in the now, and see you looking baith dull and dour? Dight your een, my bairn, and snood back your hair—I’se warrant you’ll mak a bonnier bride than ony o’ your sisters.”
“I carena whether I look bonny or no, since Willie winna see me,” said Mary, while her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, mother, ye have been ower hasty in this matter; I canna help thinking he will come hame yet, and make me his wife. It’s borne in on my mind that Willie is no dead.”
“Put awa such thoughts out o’ your head, lassie,” answered her mother; “naebody doubts but yoursel that the ship that he sailed in was whumelled ower in the saut sea—what gars you threep he’s leeving that gate?”
“Ye ken, mother,” answered Mary, “that when Willie gaed awa on that wearifu’ voyage, ‘to mak the crown a pound,’ as the auld sang says, he left a kist o’ his best claes for me to tak care o’; for he said he would keep a’ his braws for a day that’s no like to come, and that’s our bridal. Now, ye ken it’s said, that as lang as the moths keep aff folk’s claes, the owner o’ them is no dead,—so I e’en took a look o’ his bit things the day, and there’s no a broken thread among them.”
“Ye had little to do to be howking among a dead man’s claes,” said her mother; “it was a bonny like job for a bride.”
“But I’m no a bride,” answered Mary, sobbing. “How can ye hae the heart to speak o’t, mother, and the year no out since I broke a ring wi’ my ain Willie!—Weel hae I keepit my half o’t; and if Willie is in this world, he’ll hae the other as surely.”
“I trust poor Willie is in a better place,” said the mother, trying to sigh; “and since it has been ordered sae, ye maun just settle your mind to take honest Maister Binks; he’s rich, Mary, my dear bairn, and he’ll let ye want for naething.”
“Riches canna buy true love,” said Mary.
“But they can buy things that will last a hantle longer,” responded the wily mother; “so, Mary, ye maun tak him, if you would hae me die in peace. Ye ken I can leave ye but little. The house and bit garden maun gang to your brother, and his wife will mak him keep a close hand;—she’ll soon let you see the cauld shouther. Poor relations are unco little thought o’; so, lassie, as ye would deserve my benison, dinna keep simmering it and wintering it any longer, but take a gude offer when it’s made ye.”