"What is it, Mysie?" he enquired, his hands at once going tenderly over
her bent head, and caressing it as he spoke, "What is it, Mysie? Tell
me. Hae I vexed you by speakin' like that? Dinna greet, Mysie," he went
on soothingly, his voice soft and tender, and vibrant with sympathy and
love. "Dinna greet. But tell me what's wrang. I'm sorry if it's me that
has done it, Mysie. Maybe I hae frightened you; but, there now, dinna
greet. I didna mean ony harm!" and he stroked and caressed her hair
softly with his hands, or patted her shoulders at every word, as a
mother does with a fretful child.
"There noo, Mysie, dinna greet," he said again, the soft, soothing note
of vexation in his voice growing more tender and husky with emotion.
"Look up, Mysie, for I dinna like to see you greetin'. It maun be
something gey bad, surely, to mak' you greet like this," and his hands
seemed to stab her with every tender touch, and his soft words but added
more pain to her grief.
But still Mysie never answered. Her tears instead flowed faster, and her
sobs grew heavier, until finally she moaned like a stricken animal in
pain.
"Mysie! Mysie! my dochter, what is it?" unable to control himself
longer.
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