"Surely you can tell me what ails you? What is it, Mysie? Look
up, my dear! Look up an' tell me what ails you!"
"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" moaned Mysie, the floodgates of her grief now
wide, and her soul in torture.
"Mysie," he cried, taking her head between his hands and raising it up,
"what is it that's wrang with you? Is it me that is the cause o' you
being vexed?"
"Oh, no, no," she moaned, trying to avert her face. "Oh, dinna, Rob!"
she pleaded, and the old familiar name smote him and thrilled him as of
old.
"Tell me what is the matter," he said, a stronger note in his voice, the
old masterful spirit asserting itself again. "What is wrang wi' you? I
can't understand it, an' I wish to try an' help you."
But still she sobbed and there was no answer.
"Look here," he said. "Tell me plainly if I have been the cause of
this."
"No; oh, no," she sobbed, again hiding her eyes with her hands.
"Very weel, then," he went on. "Will you no' tell me what is wrong? I
canna understand it unless you tell me. Are you in ony trouble o' ony
kind? Speak, Mysie." Then, his voice becoming more pleading in its
tones, "Wad you be feart to be my wife, Mysie? I aye thocht you cared
for me.
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