‘And noo,’ continued Steenie, ‘I’m richt glaid she’s gane, and my min’ ’ll be mair at ease gien I tell ye what for:--I maun aye tell you a’thing ’at ’ll bide tellin, Kirsty, ye ken!--Weel, a week or twa ago, I began to be troubled as I never was troubled afore. I canna weel say what was the cause o’ ’t, or the kin’ o’ thing it was, but something had come that I didna want to come, and couldna keep awa. Maybe ye’ll ken what it was like whan I tell ye ’at I was aye think-thinkin aboot Phemy. Noo, afore she cam, I was maist aye thinkin aboot the bonny man; and it wasna that there was ony sic necessity for thinkin aboot Phemy, for by that time she was oot o’ her meesery, whatever that was, or whatever had the wyte (_blame_) o’ ’t. I’ the time afore her, whan my min’ wud grow a bit quaiet, and the pooers o’ darkness wud draw themsels awa a bit, aye wud come the face o’ the bonny man intil the toom place, and fill me fresh up wi’ the houp o’ seein him or lang; but noo, at ilka moment, up wud come, no the face o’ the bonny man, but the face o’ Phemy; and I didna like that, and I cudna help it. And a scraichin fear grippit me, ’at I was turnin fause to the bonny man. It wisna that I thoucht he wud be vext wi’ me, but that I cudna bide onything to come atween me and him. I teuk mysel weel ower the heckles, but I cudna mak oot ’at I cud a’thegither help it. Ye see, somehoo, no bein made a’thegither like ither fowk, I cudna think aboot twa things at ance, and I bude to think aboot the ane that cam o’ ’tsel like. But, as I say, it troubled me. Weel, the day, my hert was sair at her gangin awa, for I had been lang used to seein her ilka hoor, maist ilka minute; and the ae wuss i’ my hert at the time was to du something worth duin for her, and syne dee and hae dune wi’ ’t--and there, I doobt, I clean forgot the bonny man! Whan she got intil the doctor’s gig and awa they drave, my hert grew cauld; I was like ane deid and beginnin to rot i’ the grave. But that minute I h’ard, or it was jist as gien I h’ard--I dinna mean wi’ my lugs, but i’ my hert, ye ken--a v’ice cry, “Steenie! Steenie!” and I cried lood oot, “Comin, Lord!” but I kent weel eneuch the v’ice was inside o’ me, and no i’ my heid, but i’ my hert--and nane the less i’ me for that! Sae awa at ance I cam to my closet here, and sat doon, and hearkent i’ the how o’ my hert. Never a word cam, but I grew quaiet--eh, sae quaiet and content like, wi’oot onything to mak me sae, but maybe ’at he was thinkin aboot me! And I’m quaiet yet. And as sune ’s it’s dark, I s’ gang oot and see whether the bonny man be onywhaur aboot. There’s naething atween him and me noo; for, the moment I begin to think, it’s him ’at comes to be thoucht aboot, and no Phemy ony mair!’ ‘Steenie,’ said Kirsty, ‘it was the bonny man sent Phemy til ye--to gie ye something to du for him, luikin efter ane o’ his silly lambs.’