It's her?'
'Maybe. . . . She hasna ta'en the ring yet.'
'But ye think she will, or ye wudna ha'e tell't me. Weel, I'm sure
I wish ye luck, Macgreegor. She's a bonny bit lass, rael clever, I
wud say, an'--an' gey stylish.'
'She's no that stylish--onyway, no stylish like Aunt Purdie.'
'Ah, but ye maunna cry doon yer Aunt Purdie----'
'I didna mean that. But ye ken what I mean, fayther.'
'Oh, fine, fine,' Mr. Robinson replied, thankful that he had not
been asked to explain precisely what _he_ had meant. 'She bides wi'
her uncle an' aunt, does she no?' he continued, thoughtfully. 'I'm
wonderin' what they'll say aboot this. I doobt they'll say ye're
faur ower young to be thinkin' o' a wife.'
It was on Macgregor's tongue to retort that he had never thought of
any such thing, when his father went on----
'An' as for yer mither, it'll be a terrible surprise to her. I
suppose ye'U be tellin', her as sune's ye get back ?'
'Ay. . . . Are ye no pleased about it?'
'Me?' Mr. Robinson scratched his head. 'Takin' it for granted
that ye're serious aboot the thing, I was never pleaseder. Ye can
tell yer mither that, if ye like.'
Macgregor was used to the paternal helping word at awkward moments,
but he had never valued it so much as now. As a matter of fact, he
dreaded his mother's frown less than her smile. Yet he need not
have dreaded either on this occasion.
He found her in the kitchen, busy over a heap of more or less
woolly garments belonging to himself.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25