She drew her hands sharply away: "Then you had nae richt tae tak' sic' a
liberty. Ye hardly kent me,"--and she sprang up. "I maun fetch the
kye," she cried as she hastened off.
I watched her drive them in; then she came for me and led me carefully
back to the house. It seemed to me that there was some message tingling
from her heart to mine through the arm with which she supported me--but
she spoke no word.
As we drew near the door, her mother came out to meet us and catching
sight of the forgotten chaplet, exclaimed: "Mary, whatever are ye daein'
wi' a string o' daisies in your hair? Ye look like a play-actress."
Laughingly Mary removed the wreath. "It was only a bairn's ploy," she
said; then to my great cheer, she slipped the flowers into her bosom.
"Come awa' in," said Jean: and she assisted me to my place by the fire.
An adventurous hen with a brood of chickens--little fluffy balls of gold
and snow--had followed us, and with noisy duckings from the mother, the
little creatures pecked and picked from the floor. Jean clapped her
hands at them: "Shoo! ye wee Covenanters!" she cried.