Gordon sprang to his feet with such a look of wrath and despair as for a moment frightened Kirsty who was not easily frightened. She thought of the terrible bog-holes on the way her lover had come, sprang also to her feet, and caught him by the arm where, his foot already in the stirrup, he stood in the act of mounting. ‘Francie! Francie!’ she cried, ‘hearken to rizzon! There’s no a body, man or wuman, I like better nor yersel to du ye ony guid or turn o’ guid--’cep’ my father, of coorse, and my mither, and my ain Steenie!’ ‘And hoo mony mair, gien I had the wull to hear the lang bible-chapter o’ them, and see mysel comin in at the tail o’ them a’, like the hin’most sheep, takin his bite as he cam? Na, na! it’s time I was hame, and had my slip (_pinafore_) on, and was astride o’ a stick! Gien ye had a score o’ idiot-brithers, ye wud care mair for ilk ane o’ them nor for me! I canna bide to think o’ ’t.’ ‘It’s true a’ the same, whether ye can bide to think o’ ’t or no, Francie!’ returned the girl, her face, which had been very pale, now rosy with indignation. ‘My Steenie’s mair to me nor a’ the Gordons thegither, Bow-o’-meal or Jock-and-Tam as ye like!’ She drew back, sat down again to the stocking she was knitting for Steenie, and left her lover to mount and ride, which he did without another word. ‘There’s mair nor ae kin’ o’ idiot,’ she said to herself, ‘and Steenie’s no the kin’ that oucht to be ca’d ane. There’s mair in Steenie nor in sax Francie Gordons!’ If ever Kirsty came to love a man, it would be just nothing to her to die for him; but then it never would have been anything to her to die for her father or her mother or Steenie! Gordon galloped off at a wild pace, as if he would drive his pony straight athwart the terrible moss, taking hag and well-eye as it came. But glancing behind and seeing that Kirsty was not looking after him, he turned the creature’s head in a safer direction, and left the moss at his back. CHAPTER IV DOG-STEENIE She sat for some time at the foot of the hill, motionless as itself, save for her hands. The sun shone on in silence, and the blue butterflies which haunted the little bush of bluebells, that is harebells, beside her, made no noise; only a stray bee, happy in the pale heat, made a little music to please itself--and perhaps the butterflies. Kirsty had an unusual power of sitting still, even with nothing for her hands to do. On the present occasion, however, her hands and fingers went faster than usual--not entirely from eagerness to finish her stocking, but partly from her displeasure with Francis. At last she broke her ‘worset,’ drew the end of it through the final loop, and, drawing it, rose and scanned the side of the hill. Not far off she spied the fleecy backs of a few feeding sheep, and straightway sent out on the still air a sweet, strong, musical cry. It was instantly responded to by a bark from somewhere up the hill. She sat down, clasped her hands over her knees, and waited.