She said I was very stupid, and I must say it over and over
again till I recollected it. Well, it was astonishing how quick she
picked up English, and what progress I made in Gaelic; and if it
hadn't been for mother, who hated the language like pyson, I do
believe I should soon have mastered it so as to speak it as well as
you do. But she took every opportunity she could to keep us apart, and
whenever I went into the room where Flora was spinning, or ironing,
she would either follow and take a chair, and sit me out, or send me
away of an errand, or tell me to go and talk to father, who was all
alone in the parlour, and seemed kinder dull. I never saw a person
take such a dislike to the language as she did; and she didn't seem to
like poor Flora either, for no other reason as I could see under the
light of the livin' sun, but because she spoke it; for it was
impossible not to love her--she was so beautiful, so artless, and so
interesting, and so innocent. But so it was.
"Poor thing! I pitied her. The old people couldn't make out half she
said, and mother wouldn't allow me, who was the only person she could
talk to, to have any conversation with her if she could help it. It is
a bad thing to distrust young people, it makes them artful at last;
and I really believe it had that effect on me to a certain extent. The
unfortunate girl often had to set up late ironing, or something or
another.
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