‘Ay; what is’t, Francie?’ returned Kirsty. ‘Is’t yersel, Kirsty?’ he said. ‘Ay, wha ither, Francie!’ ‘Are ye angry at me, Kirsty?’ ‘No a grain. What gars ye speir sic a queston?’ ‘Eh, but ye gae me sic a ane wi’ yer whup--jist here upo’ the haffit! Luik.’ He turned the side of his head toward her, and stroked the place, like a small, self-pitying child. Kirsty went to him, and kissed it like a mother. She had plainly perceived that such a scar could not be from her blow, but it added grievously to her pain at the remembrance of it that the poor head which she had struck, had in the very same place been torn by a splinter--for so the doctor said. If her whip left any mark, the splinter had obliterated it. ‘And syne,’ he resumed, ‘ye ca’d me a cooard!’ ‘Did I du that, ill wuman ’at I was!’ she returned, with tenderest maternal soothing. He laid his arms round her neck, drew her feebly toward him, hid his head on her bosom, and wept. Kirsty put her arm round him, held him closer, and stroked his head with her other hand, murmuring words of much meaning though little sense. He drew back his head, looked at her beseechingly, and said, ‘_Div_ ye think me a cooard, Kirsty?’ ‘No wi’ men,’ answered the truthful girl, who would not lie even in ministration to a mind diseased. ‘Maybe ye think I oucht to hae strucken ye back whan ye strack me? I _wull_ be a cooard than, lat ye say what ye like. I never did, and I never will hit a lassie, lat her kill me!’ ‘It wasna that, Francie. Gien I ca’d ye a cooard, it was ’at ye behaved sae ill to Phemy.’ ‘Eh, the bonny little Phemy! I had ’maist forgotten her! Hoo is she, Kirsty?’ ‘She’s weel--and verra weel,’ answered Kirsty; ‘she’s deid.’ ‘Deid!’ echoed Gordon, with a cry, again raising himself on his elbow. ‘Surely it wasna--it wasna ’at the puir wee thing cudna forget me! The thing’s no possible! I wasna worth it!’ ‘Na, na; it wasna ae grain that! Her deein had naething to du wi that--nor wi you in ony w’y. I dinna believe she was a hair waur for ony nonsense ye said til her--shame o’ ye as it was! She dee’d upo’ the Horn, ae awfu’ tempest o’ a nicht. She cudna hae suffert lang, puir thing! She hadna the stren’th to suffer muckle. Sae awa she gaed!--and Steenie efter her!’ added Kirsty in a lower tone, but Francis did not seem to hear, and said no more for awhile. ‘But I maun tell ye the trowth, Kirsty,’ he resumed: ‘forby yersel, there’s them ’at says I’m a cooard!’ ‘I h’ard ae man say’t, only ane, and him only ance.’ ‘And ye said til ’im, “Ay, I hae lang kenned that!”’ ‘I tellt him whaever said it was a leear!’ ‘But ye believt it yersel, Kirsty!’ ‘Wad ye hae me leear and hypocrite forby, to ca’ fowk ill names for sayin what I believt mysel!’ ‘But I _am_ a cooard, Kirsty!’