‘It’s naething but ye’re eenvious o’ me, Kirsty, ’cause ye canna get him yersel! He wud never luik at a lass like you!’ ‘It’s weel a’body sees na wi’ the same een, Phemy! Gien I had yer Francie i’ the parritch-pat, I wudna pike him oot, but fling frae me pat and parritch. For a’ that, I hae a haill side o’ my hert saft til him: my father and his lo’ed like brithers.’ ‘That canna be, Kirsty--and it’s no like ye to blaw! Your father was a common so’dier and his was cornel o’ the regiment!’ ‘Allooin!’ was all Kirsty’s answer. Phemy betook herself to entreaty. ‘Lat me gang, Kirsty! Please! I’ll gang doon o’ my knees til ye! I canna bide him to think I’ve played him fause.’ ‘He’ll play you fause, my lamb, whatever ye du or he think! It maks my hert sair to ken ’at no guid will your hert get o’ his.--He s’ no see ye the nicht, ony gait!’ Phemy uttered a childish howl, but immediately choked it with a proud sob. ‘Ye’re hurtin me, Kirsty!’ she said, after a minute or so of silence. ‘Lat me doon, and I’ll gang straucht hame to my father. I promise ye.’ ‘I’ll set ye doon,’ answered Kirsty, ‘but ye maun come hame to my mither.’ ‘What’ll my father think?’ ‘I s’ no forget yer father,’ said Kirsty. She sent out a strange, piercing cry, set Phemy down, took her hand in hers, and went on, Phemy making no resistance. In about three minutes there was a noise in the heather, and Snootie came rushing to Kirsty. A few moments more and Steenie appeared. He lifted his bonnet to Phemy, and stood waiting his sister’s commands. ‘Steenie,’ she said, ‘tak the dog wi’ ye, and rin doon to the toon, and tell Mr. Craig ’at Phemy here’s comin hame wi’ me, to bide the nicht. Ye winna be langer nor ye canna help, and ye’ll come to the hoose afore ye gang to the hill?’ ‘I’ll du that, Kirsty. Come, doggie,’ Steenie never went to the town of his own accord, and Kirsty never liked him to go, for the boys were rude, but to-night it would be dark before he reached it. ‘Ye’re no surely gaun to gar me bide a’ nicht!’ said Phemy, beginning again to cry. ‘I am that--the nicht, and maybe the morn’s nicht, and ony nummer o’ nichts till we’re sure he’s awa!’ answered Kirsty, resuming her walk. Phemy wept aloud, but did not try to escape. ‘And him gaein to promise this verra nicht ’at he would merry me!’ she cried, but through her tears and sobs her words were indistinct. Kirsty stopped, and faced round on her. ‘He promised to merry ye?’ she said. ‘I didna say that; I said he was gaein to promise the nicht. And noo he’ll be gane, and never a word said!’ ‘He promised, did he, ’at he would promise the nicht?--Eh, Francie! Francie! ye’re no yer father’s son!--He promised to promise to merry ye! Eh, ye puir gowk o’ a bonny lassie!’ ‘Gien I met him the nicht--ay, it cam to that.’ All Kirsty’s inborn motherhood awoke. She turned to her, and, clasping the silly thing in her arms, cried out--