“Na, I canna dee that, sir; it’s enough that I have disgracet _myself_! You wouldn’t have me disgrace another as well! What good would that be?” “It wad help ye beir the disgrace.” “Na, no a hair, sir; _he_ cudna stan’ the disgrace half sae weel ’s me! I reckon the man the waiker vessel, sir; the woman has her bairn to fend for, and that taks her aff o’ the shame!” “Ye dinna tell me he gies ye noucht to mainteen the cratur upo?” “I tell ye naething, sir. He never even kenned there _was_ a bairn!” “Hoot, toot! ye canna be sae semple! It’s no poassible ye never loot him ken!” “’Deed no; I was ower sair ashamit! Ye see it was a’ my wyte!—and it was naebody’s business! My auntie said gien I wouldna tell, I micht put the door atween ’s; and I took her at her word; for I kenned weel _she_ couldna keep a secret, and I wasna gaein to hae _his_ name mixed up wi’ a lass like mysel! And, sir, ye maunna try to gar me tell, for I hae no richt, and surely ye canna hae the hert to gar me!—But that ye _sanna_, ony gait!” “I dinna blame ye, Isy! but there’s jist ae thing I’m determined upo—and that is that the rascal sall merry ye!” Isy’s face flushed; she was taken too much at unawares to hide her pleasure at such a word from _his_ mouth. But the flush faded, and presently Mr. Blatherwick saw that she was fighting with herself, and getting the better of that self. The shadow of a pawky smile flitted across her face as she answered— “Surely ye wouldna merry me upon a rascal, sir! Ill as I hae behaved til ye, I can hardly hae deservit that at yer han’!” “That’s what he’ll hae to dee though—jist merry ye aff han’! I s’ _gar_ him.” “I winna hae him garred! It’s me that has the richt ower him, and no anither, man nor wuman! He sanna be garred! What wad ye hae o’ me—thinkin I would tak a man ’at was garred! Na, na; there s’ be nae garrin!—And ye canna gar _him_ merry me gien _I_ winna hae him! The day’s by for that!—A garred man! My certy!—Na, I thank ye!” “Weel, my bonny leddy,” said Peter, “gien I had a prence to my son,—providit he was worth yer takin—I wad say to ye, ‘Hae, my leddy!’” “And I would say to you, sir, ‘No—gien he bena willin,’” answered Isy, and ran from the room. “Weel, what think ye o’ the lass by this time, Mr. Bletherwick?” said the soutar, with a flash in his eye. “I think jist what I thoucht afore,” answered Peter: “she’s ane amo’ a million!” “I’m no that sure aboot the proportion!” returned MacLear. “I doobt ye micht come upo twa afore ye wan throw the million!—A million’s a heap o’ women!” “All I care to say is, that gien Jeemie binna ready to lea’ father and mother and kirk and steeple, and cleave to that wuman and her only, he’s no a mere gomeril, but jist a meeserable, wickit fule! and I s’ never speyk word til ’im again, wi my wull, gien I live to the age o’ auld Methuselah!”