“I’ll no hae him till the year is out,” cried Mary. “Wha kens but the ship may cast up yet?”
“I fancy we’ll hae to gie you your ain gate in this matter,” replied the dame, “mair especially as it wants but three weeks to the year, and we’ll need that to hae ye cried in the kirk, and to get a’ your braws ready.”
“Oh, mother, mother, I wish ye would let me die!” was Mary’s answer, as she flung herself down on her little bed.
Delighted at having extorted Mary’s consent to the marriage, Dame Seton quickly conveyed the happy intelligence to her son-in-law elect, a wealthy burgess of Dunbar; and having invited Annot Cameron, Mary’s cousin, to visit them, and assist her in cheering the sorrowful bride, the preparations for the marriage proceeded in due form.
On the day before that appointed for the wedding, as the cousins sat together, arranging the simple ornaments of the bridal dress, poor Mary’s feelings could no longer be restrained, and her tears fell fast.
“Dear sake, Mary, gie ower greeting,” said Annot; “the bonny white satin ribbon is wringing wet.”
“Sing her a canty sang to keep up her heart,” said Dame Seton.
“I canna bide a canty sang the day, for there’s ane rinnin’ in my head that my poor Willie made ae night as we sat beneath the rowan-tree outby there, and when we thought we were to gang hand in hand through this wearifu’ world,” and Mary began to sing in a low voice.
At this moment the door of the dwelling opened, and a tall, dark-complexioned woman entered, and saying, “My benison on a’ here,” she seated herself close to the fire, and lighting her pipe, began to smoke, to the great annoyance of Dame Seton.
“Gudewife,” said she gruffly, “ye’re spoiling the lassie’s gown, and raising such a reek, so here’s an awmous to ye, and you’ll just gang your ways, we’re unco thrang the day.”