I'll take a' the
blame, an' you can say that it was me. I'll nurse you back to health
again wi' my mither's help an' naebody need ken the richt wye o' it!"
"No, Rob," she said after a short pause. "I couldna dae that. It wad
neither be fair to you or me, nor to onybody else."
"But, Mysie," he went on in the low tender voice that was so difficult
to withstand, "you don't like Peter weel enough to be his wife. You say
you never intended to be onybody's wife but mine; an' what wye should
you no' do as I propose? You ken I'll never do onything else but love
you. You ken that, Mysie!"
"Ay, Rob," she answered, "I ken a' that. Naebody kens it better than me
noo; and that's what mak's it sae awfu' hard to refuse. But it wadna be
richt at a', an' that's a' that can be thocht aboot it. You maunna ask
me ony mair."
"But I will ask you," he cried in another burst of passion, "an' I'll
keep on askin' you. You ken you are mine, an' naebody else has a richt
to you. I love you, Mysie! Oh, can you no' see, lassie, that it wad be
a' richt if you'd do as I want you?"
"No, no, Rob. Dinna say that. It wadna be richt at a', an' I'd be doin'
anither wrang thing if I did.
Pages:
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341