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"Quite as much as yours!" "Hardly," she returned, with a curious little laugh. "But, as I daur say my father tellt ye, I canna believe ye lo'e God wi' a' yer hert." "Dare you say that for yourself, Margaret?" "No; but I do want to love God wi' my whole hert. Mr. Bletherwick, are ye a rael Christian? Or are ye sure ye're no a hypocreet? I wad like to ken. But I dinna believe ye ken yersel!"
Elise finished gleefully, elated with the success of her teasing. "My! How you are blushing, Mary. Look at her, A.O." Her dark eyes twinkled mischievously as she sang in a meaning tone: "Amang the train there is a swain I dearly lo'e mysel'. But what's his name or where's his hame I dinna choose to tell." "I'm not blushing," protested Mary, hotly.
Robertson was an angry man when he got that letter, an' he said, 'If that was a' the lo'e that Jeanie Burns had for him, to prefer an auld wife's comfort, wha was naething to her, to her betrothed husband, she might bide awa' as lang as she pleased; he would never fash himsel' to mak' screed o' a pen to her agen.
She fell on her knees, and, in the spirit of a child and of the apostle of the Gentiles, cried, laying her little red hands together and uplifting them to her master in purest entreaty. "Oh, laird, laird, ye've been gude and kin' to me, and I lo'e ye, the Lord kens!
"As for no' lo'ein' him, mither me that canna luik at a blin' kittlin' ohn lo'ed it! lo, mither! God made me sae, an didna mean me no' to lo'e An'rew!" "Andrew!" she repeated, as if the word meant the perfection of earth's worthiest rendering the idea of appropriation too absurd. Silence followed, but the mother was brooding. "Ye maun bethink ye, lass, hoo far he's abune ye!" she said at length.
It matters little about gaein to the kirk ilka Sunday, but it matters a heap aboot aye loein are anither; and whiles he says things aboot the mind o' God, sic that it's a' I can dee to sit still." "Weel, father, I dinna believe that I can lo'e him ony the day; sae, wi' yer leave, I s' be awa to Stanecross afore he comes."
"'Jamie, you ken'd how I lo'ed an' trusted him, an' obeyed his ain wish in comin' out to this wearisome country to be his wife. But 'tis a' owre now. An' she passed her sma' hands tightly owre her breast, to keep doon the swellin' o' her heart. 'Jamie, I ken that this is a' for the best; I lo'ed him too weel, mair than ony creature sud lo'e a perishin' thing o' earth.
"Here is one more cheerful," he said; "suppose I read it, my dear Miss Belle-bouche." And he read: "'Twas when the sun had left the west, And starnies twinkled clearie, O, I hied to her I lo'e the best, My blithesome, winsome dearie, O. "Her cherry lip, her e'e sae blue, Her dimplin' cheek sae bonnie, O, An' 'boon them a' her heart sae true, Hae won me mair than ony, O."
"Niest to faither an' mither an' big brither Wattie I lo'e Auld Jock an' Bobby." The bairnie's voice was smothered in the plaidie. Because it was dark and none were by to see, the reticent Scot could overflow in tender speech. His arm tightened around this one little ewe lamb of the human fold on cold slope farm.
But in every case he left the song a far more beautiful thing than he found it. None of them perhaps is more beautiful than that he now wrote to his Jean "Of a' the airts* the wind can blaw, I dearly like the wet, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best: The wild-woods grow and rivers row, And mony a hill between; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean.
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