‘Winna ye gie me luik nor word, and me ridden like mad to hae a sicht o’ ye?’ he said. She glanced up at him. ‘Weel ye hae that!’ she answered, with a smile that showed her lovely white teeth: ‘Ye’re a’ dubs (_all bemired_)! What for sud ye be in sic a hurry? Ye saw me no three days gane!’ ‘Ay, I saw ye, it’s true; but I didna get a word o’ ye!’ ‘Ye was free to say what ye likit. There was nane by but my mither!’ ‘Wud ye hae me say a’thing afore yer mither jist as I wud til ye yer lane (_alone_)?’ he asked. ‘Ay wud I,’ she returned. ‘Syne she wad ken, ’ithoot my haein to tell her sic a guse as ye was!’ Had he not seen the sunny smile that accompanied her words he might well have taken offence. ‘I wuss ye war anither sic-like!’ he answered simply. ‘Syne there wud be twa o’ ’s!’ she returned, leaving him to interpret. Silence again fell. ‘Weel, what wud ye hae, Francie?’ said Kirsty at length. ‘I wud hae ye promise to merry me, Kirsty, come the time,’ he answered; ‘and that ye ken as weel as I du mysel!’ ‘That’s straucht oot ony gait!’ rejoined Kirsty. ‘But ye see, Francie,’ she went on, ‘yer father, whan he left ye a kin’ o’ a legacy, as ye may ca’ ’t, to mine, hed no intention that _I_ was to be left oot; neither had _my_ father whan he acceppit o’ ’t!’ ‘I dinna unerstan ye ae styme (_one atom_)!’ interrupted Gordon. ‘Haud yer tongue and hearken,’ returned Kirsty. ‘What I’m meanin ’s this: what lies to my father’s han’ lies to mine as weel; and I’ll never hae ’t kenned or said that, whan my father pu’t (_pulled_) ae gait, I pu’t anither!’ ‘Sakes, lassie! what _are_ ye haverin at? Wud it be pu’in agen yer father to merry _me_?’ ‘It wud be that.’ ‘I dinna see hoo ye can mak it oot! I dinna see hoo, bein sic a freen’ o’ my father’s, he sud objeck to my father’s son!’ ‘Eh, but laddies _ir_ gowks!’ cried Kirsty. ‘My father was your father’s freen’ for _his_ sake, no for his ain! He thinks o’ what wud be guid for you, no for himsel!’ ‘Weel, but,’ persisted Gordon, ‘it wud be mair for my guid nor onything ither he cud wuss for, to hae you for my wife!’ Kirsty’s nostrils began to quiver, and her lip rose in a curve of scorn. ‘A bonnie wife ye wud hae, Francie Gordon, wha, kennin her father duin ilk mortal thing for the love o’ his auld maister and comrade, tuik the fine chance to mak her ain o’ ’t, and haud her grip o’ the callan til hersel!--Think ye aither o’ the auld men ever mintit at sic a thing as fatherin baith? That my father had a lass-bairn o’ ’s ain shawed mair nor onything the trust your father pat in ’im! Francie, the verra grave wud cast me oot for shame ’at I sud ance hae thoucht o’ sic a thing! Man, it wud maist drive yer leddy-mither dementit!’ ‘It’s my business, Kirsty, wha I merry!’ ‘And I houp yer grace ’ll alloo it’s pairt _my_ business wha ye sall _not_ merry--and that’s me, Francie!’