MÀIRI (_resuming her knitting_). It was only a foolish thought (_pause_)--a thought about one I shouldn’t maybe be thinking of, now that I’m here. WIDOW. Ah! has he--has _he_ ... turned false to you, now? MÀIRI (_quickly_). Well, not what you would call false, not that altogether. WIDOW. A lovers’ quarrel, no doubt. You’re young, you’re young, but the young heart can feel sore. I mind well. I was once like you, Màiri. Your father and I had once a lover’s quarrel. But it came all right. Lovers’ quarrels are sometimes sweet to remember afterwards. MÀIRI. It’s not what you would call a quarrel either. But we’ve parted--parted for ever. But don’t be worrying, mother, I’ll maybe no’ be caring so much as you would think. WIDOW. Well, well, it’s the way of the world. Maybe you’ll change your mind yet. Maybe you wass just a little bit to blame yourself, now, eh? I wouldn’t say you wass, Màiri, no, no. But girls--bonnie girls like yourself, my dove, will sometimes be doing things and saying things they’ll no’ quite intend altogether, and then they’ll be thinking afterwards that it’s maybe a pity it wasn’t otherwise.... Is he a good lad, Màiri, steady at his work, no drinking, and always attending the church? Is he what you would call handsome, now,--big and manly like your father? MÀIRI (_smiling_). No doubt he would have pleased you. If looks were everything, you’d be quite satisfied. He’s a gentleman in every way. WIDOW. A Highland lad, too, maybe, and of a good clan? MÀIRI. Well, no’ exactly what you would call Highland; but his grandfather was a Ross and he’s proud of it. WIDOW. So well he might be. There were some fine Rosses, although they were never like the Mackays, or my own clan, the great clan Donald. I would like to see your young man, Màiri. You’ll make it up all right with him yet, eh? MÀIRI. No, no; it’s all past. He’s fickle, mother--a poppy in the corn--a butterfly--one you would maybe like to look at, but not to depend on--changeable as the wind, and cruel without knowing it--aye! (_Sighs._) But don’t be speaking about him. It’s time I was beginning to forget there’s such a one in the world. WIDOW. Aye, so.... (_Looking through the window_). There’s Sandy coming. MÀIRI (_rising quickly in alarm_). Who--who? WIDOW. It’s only Sandy, oor neighbour. He’s coming to sow the turnips for me. Ah! Màiri, the neighbours will be very good to me since your father’s death. Every one of them comes to do his share o’ work on the croft and keep a roof above my head. I’ll better be speaking to Sandy. (_Exit._)