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"I don't want to know anything Andrew would not tell me." "He thought it was my secret, you see, not his, and that was why he did not tell you." "Of coarse, ma'am. Andrew always did what was right." "Well, then, Dawtie I offered to be his wife if he would have me." "And what did he say?" asked Dawtie, with the composure of one listening to a story learned from a book. "He told me he couldn't.
She kens me, or she would hae keepit the puir thing, and done her best wi' her." "I ken somebody," said Andrew, "that would fain spread oot wings, like a great big hen, ower a' the bairns, you an' me an' a', Dawtie!" "That's my mither!" cried Dawtie, looking up, and showing her white teeth. "Na, it's a man," said Sandy. "It's my father, than!" "Na, it's no. Would ye like to see Him?"
He read one or two of the poems to Dawtie, who was pleased but not astonished she was never astonished at anything; she had nothing in her to make anything beautiful by contrast; her mind was of beauty itself, and anything beautiful was to her but in the order and law of things what was to be expected.
"Sir, and ma'am," said Andrew, "will you please witness that this woman is my wife?" "It's Maister Andrew Ingram o' the Knowe," said Dawtie. "He wants me to merry him." "I want her to go before the court as my wife," said Andrew. "She would have me wait till the jury said this or that. The jury give me my wife. As if I didn't know her." "You won't have him, I see," said Mrs.
"Something must be done!" she went on. "He can't be left like that! But if he has any love to his Master, how is it that the love of that Master does not cast out the love of Mammon? I can't understand it." "You have asked a hard question, Dawtie. But a cure may be going on, and take a thousand years or ages to work it out." "What if it shouldn't be begun yet." "That would be terrible."
"It's ower late for ye to gang hame yer lane, dawtie," said the old man. "I'm nae that fleyt," answered Annie. "Weel, gin ye walk wi' Him, the mirk'll be licht aboot ye," said he, taking off his Highland bonnet, and looking up with a silent recognition of the care of Him. "Be a gude lass," he resumed, replacing his bonnet, "an' rin hame as fest's ye can. Gude nicht to ye, dawtie."
It is not often a girl in your position takes an interest in the abstract! Besides," he resumed, another argument occurring to him, "a thing of such historical value and interest ought to be where it was cared for, not where it was in danger every moment." "There might be something in that," allowed Dawtie, "if it were where everybody could see it.
The subject did not admit of discussion, though Saunders was a cuif, he knew when to hold his tongue at least on most occasions. "An' what brocht ye here the nicht, Cuif?" asked Meg, who, when she wanted information, knew how to ask it directly, a very rare feminine accomplishment. "To see you, Meg, my dawtie," replied Saunders, tenderly edging nearer.
And it's a cauld nicht. I ken that by my leg. And ye see Jeames Johnstone's no an ill-nater'd man like me. He's a douce man, and he's sure to be weel-pleased and come till's tay. Na, na; ye needna come back. Guid nicht to ye, my dawtie. The Lord bless ye for comin' to pray wi' an ill-nater'd man."
Cup or no cup, the thing was impossible!" Dawtie opened her eyes and there he was, holding back the curtain and looking round the edge of it with a face of eagerness, effort, and hate, as of one struggling to go, and unable to break away. She rose to her feet. "You are a fiend!" he cried. "I will go with Agnes!" He gave a cry, and ceased, and all was still.
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