WIDOW. Well, well, my treasure, have your own way with it. Balree is indeed a sweet place, and God’s world is very beautiful. (_Stops spinning._) Màiri, that honeysuckle was planted out there by your dear father, nineteen years ago, on the very day you came into the world. He’ll be at his rest now three years come Martinmas, and every summer his beautiful flower will be growing and spreading and blooming. The smell of it goes to my heart like a sweet thought of him. (_Sighs and resumes her work at the spinning wheel, drawing out a thread and adjusting it._) It’s your own father that would be proud of you, Màiri, if he was still with us, but the Lord appointed otherwise. (_Sighs._) His will be done. (_Goes on spinning._) [_Màiri rises from her chair, draws a tendril of honeysuckle through the window and smells it: then she plucks a blossom and puts it in her blouse. Musing, she leans her elbow on the window, chin on hand, gazing towards the loch. Her mother stops spinning, looks up and watches her daughter for a few seconds in silence._] WIDOW. You are very quiet, Màiri. How you have changed! MÀIRI. I was only thinking to myself--just thinking a little. WIDOW. It’s me that sees a great difference in you--you that used to be such a cheery lassie, always laughing and teasing one and making the jokes. Many times, when you’re away, I will be smiling here my lone self, thinking o’ the things you used to be saying and doing. Now, I’ll notice, and I canna’ help noticing it, that you’re changed so much. I suppose it’s the city that does it. You’ll have many things, no doubt, to be thinking over, and maybe, yes, maybe, you’re feeling just a little dull, now, in this quiet place.... You’ll often be sitting thinking to yourself in that way. Surely nosing[3] will be troubling you, m’eudail[4]? [_Màiri does not answer. She sits down, hangs her head and resumes knitting. Her mother rises, grasping her chin between her fingers, a look of concern on her face; goes over to the window and sits besides her daughter._] WIDOW. And something is troubling you, Màiri, my own. You canna’ hide it from me. There will be tears in your eyes, Ochone! what will you be hiding in the deep heart of you? You shouldn’t be hiding anysing at all, at all, from me, your own mother. [_Màiri shakes her head, takes out her handkerchief and dries her eyes._] WIDOW (_very softly_). You are all I have left in this world--your father dead, your brother killed in the war in a foreign land far away. It would break my heart to think you would be keeping anysing from me. What is it? Tell me (_strokes the girl’s hair_), dove of my heart! my fair love!... Màiri (_entreatingly_).