The moonlight filtered down through the trees, working silvery patterns
upon the pathway. The silence, heavy and scented, was broken only by the
far-away wheepling of a wakeful whaup and the grumbling of the burn near
by, which bickered and hurried to be out in the open again on its way to
the river.
Mysie heard the sounds, felt the fragrance of young briars and hawthorn
mingled with the smell of last year's decaying leaves which carpeted the
pathway. She noted the beauty of the foliage against the moon, heard the
swift scurry of a frightened rabbit and the faint snort of a hedge-hog
on the prowl for food.
"What have you to say to me, Mysie?" Peter persisted, his hot breath
against her cheek, his blood coursing through his veins in red-hot
passion. "Could you care for me, Mysie? I want you to be mine!"
"I dinna ken what to say," she at last answered, distress in her voice,
yet pleased to be wooed by this young man. "Wad it no' be wrang to ha'e
onything to dae wi' me? I'm only your mither's servant." She felt it was
her duty to put it this way.
"No, you are my sweetheart," he cried, discretion all gone now in his
eager furtherance of his pleading.
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