This was her
own thought, for she had been taken with my account of Alison
Hastie, and desired to see the lass herself. We found her once
more alone--indeed, I believe her father wrought all day in the
fields--and she curtsied dutifully to the gentry-folk and the
beautiful young lady in the riding-coat.
"Is this all the welcome I am to get?" said I, holding out my hand.
"And have you no more memory of old friends?"
"Keep me! wha's this of it?" she cried, and then, "God's truth,
it's the tautit {19} laddie!"
"The very same," says
"Mony's the time I've thocht upon you and your freen, and blythe am
I to see in your braws," {20} she cried. "Though I kent ye were
come to your ain folk by the grand present that ye sent me and that
I thank ye for with a' my heart."
"There," said Miss Grant to me, "run out by with ye, like a guid
bairn. I didnae come here to stand and haud a candle; it's her and
me that are to crack."
I suppose she stayed ten minutes in the house, but when she came
forth I observed two things--that her eyes were reddened, and a
silver brooch was gone out of her bosom.
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