‘I’m no preten’in to ony exparience,’ returned Kirsty; ‘I wad only hae ye tak coonsel wi’ common sense. Is ’t likly, Phemy, ’at a man wi gran’ relations, and gran’ notions, a man wi’ a fouth o’ grit leddies in ’s acquantance to mak a fule o’ him and themsels thegither, special noo ’at he’s an offisher i’ the Company’s service--is ’t ony gait likly, I say, ’at he sud be as muckle ta’en up wi’ a wee bit cuintry lassie as she cudna but be wi’ him?’ ‘Noo, Kirsty, ye jist needna gang aboot to gar me mistrust ane wha’s the verra mirror o’ a’ knichtly coortesy,’ rejoined Phemy, speaking out of the high-flown, thin atmosphere she thought the region of poetry, ‘for ye canna! Naething ever onybody said cud gar me think different o’ _him_!’ ‘Nor naething ever he said himsel?’ asked Kirsty. ‘Naething,’ answered Phemy, with strength and decision. ‘No gien it was ’at naething wud ever gar him merry ye?’ ‘That he micht weel say, for he winna need garrin!--But he never said it, and ye needna try to threpe it upo’ me!’ she added, in a tone that showed the very idea too painful. ‘He did say’t, Phemy.’ ‘Wha tellt ye? It’s lees! Somebody’s leein!’ ‘He said it til me himsel. Never a lee has onybody had a chance o’ puttin intil the tale!’ ‘He never said it, Kirsty!’ cried Phemy, her cheeks now glowing, now pale as death. ‘He daurna!’ ‘He daured; and he daured to _me_! He said, “I wudna merry her gien baith o’ ye gaed doon upon yer knees to me!”’ ‘Ye maun hae sair angert him, Kirsty, or he wudna hae said it! Of coorse he wasna to be guidit by you! He _cud_na hae meaned what he said! He wad never hae said it to me! I wuss wi’ a’ my hert I hadna latten ye til ’im! Ye hae ruined a’!’ ‘Ye never loot me gang, Phemy! It was my business to gang.’ ‘I see what’s intil’t!’ cried Phemy, bursting into tears. ‘Ye tellt him hoo little ye thoucht o’ me, and that gart him change his min’!’ ‘Wud he be worth greitin aboot gien that war the case, Phemy? But ye ken it wasna that! Ye ken ’at I jist cudna du onything o’ the sort!-- I’m jist ashamed to deny’t!’ ‘Hoo am I to ken? There’s nae a wuman born but wad fain hae him til hersel!’ Kirsty held her peace for pity, thinking what she could say to convince her of Gordon’s faithlessness. ‘He didna say he hadna promised?’ resumed Phemy through her sobs. ‘We camna upo’ that.’ ‘That’s what I’m thinkin!’ ‘I kenna what ye’re thinking, Phemy!’ ‘What did ye gie him, Kirsty, whan he tauld ye--no ’at I believe a word o’ ’t--’at he wud nane o’ me?’ Kirsty laughed with a scorn none the less clear that it was quiet. ‘Jist a guid lickin,’ she answered. ‘Ha, ha!’ laughed Phemy hysterically. ‘I tellt ye ye was leein! Ye hae been naething but leein--a’ for fun, of coorse, I ken that--to mak a fule o’ me for bein fleyt!’ Despair, for a moment, seemed to overwhelm Kirsty. Was it for this she had so wounded her own soul! How was she to make the poor child understand? She lifted up her heart in silence. At last she said,--