‘Even than, Francie, ye wudna, it seems, hae been doin ’t to please me, and that pleases me weel! I wud be nane pleast to think ye duin ’t for me! It wud gie me a sair hert, Francie!’ ‘What for that, Kirsty?’ ‘’Cause it wud shaw ye no a man yet! A man’s a man ’at dis what’s richt, what’s pleasin to the verra hert o’ richt. Ye’ll please me best by no wantin to please me; and ye’ll please God best by duin what he’s putten intil yer hert as the richt thing, and the bonny thing, and the true thing, though ye suld dee i’ the duin o’ ’t.--Tell me what ye’re thinkin o’ duin.’ ‘What but gaeing efter this new commission they hae promised me? There’s aye a guid chance o’ fechtin upo’ the borders--the frontiers, as they ca’ them!’ Kirsty sat silent. She had been thinking much of what Francis ought to do, and had changed her mind on the point since the time when she talked about him with sir Haco. ‘Isna that what ye wud hae me du, Kirsty?’ he said, when he found she continued silent. ‘A body’s no a fule for wantin guid advice!’ ‘No, that’s true eneuch!--What for wad ye want to gang fechtin?’ ‘To shaw the warl’ I’m nane o’ what my mither ca’d me.’ ‘And shawn that, hoo muckle the better man wud ye be for ’t? Min’ ye it’s ae thing to be, and anither to shaw. _Be_ ye maun; _shaw_ ye needna.’ ‘I dinna ken; I micht be growin better a’ the time!’ ‘And ye micht be growin waur.--What the better wud ony neebour be for ye gane fechtin? Wudna it be a’ for yersel? Is there naething gien intil yer han’ to du--naething nearer hame nor that? Surely o’ twa things, ane near and ane far, the near comes first!’ ‘I dinna ken. I thoucht ye wantit me to gang!’ ‘Ay, raither nor bide at hame duin naething; but michtna there be something better to du?’ ‘I dinna ken. I thoucht to please ye, Kirsty, but it seems naething wull!’ ‘Ay; that’s whaur the mischief lies: ye thoucht to please _me_!’ ‘I did think to please you, Kirsty! I thoucht, ance dune weel afore the warl as my father did, I micht hae the face to come hame to you, and say--“Kirsty, wull ye hae me?”’ ‘Aye the same auld Francie!’ said Kirsty, with a deep sigh. ‘Weel?’ ‘I tell ye, Francie, i’ the name o’ God, I’ll never hae ye on nae sic terms!--Suppose I was to merry somebody whan ye was awa pruvin to yersel, and a’ the lave ’at never misdoobted ye, ’at ye was a brave man--what wud ye du whan ye cam hame?’ ‘Naething o’ mortal guid! Tak to the drink, maybe.’ ‘Ye tell me that! and ye think, wi’ my een open to ken ’at ye say true, I wud merry ye?--a man like you! Eh, Francie, Francie! ye’re no worth my takin, and ye’re no like to be worth the takin o’ ony honest wuman!--Can ye possibly imegine a wuman merryin a man ’at she kenned wud drive her to coontless petitions to be hauden ohn despisit him? Ye mak my hert unco sair, Francie! I hae dune my best wi’ ye, and the en’ o’ ’t is, ’at ye’re no worth naething!’