One morning, Kirsty sitting beside him, Francis started to his elbow as if to get up, then seeing her, lay down again with his eyes fixed¹ upon her. She glanced at him now and then, but would not seem to notice him much. He gazed for two or three minutes, and then said, in a low, doubtful, almost timid, voice,

 

‘Kirsty?’

 

‘Ay; what is’t, Francie?’ returned Kirsty.

 

‘Is’t yersel, Kirsty?’ he said.

 

‘Ay, wha ither, Francie!’

 

‘Are ye angry at me, Kirsty?’

 

‘No a grain. What gars ye speir sic a queston?’

 

‘Eh, but ye gae me sic a ane wi’ yer whup—jist here upo’ the haffit! Luik.’

 

He turned the side of his head toward her, and stroked the place, like a small, self-pitying child. Kirsty went to him, and kissed it like a mother. She had plainly perceived that such a scar could not be from her blow, but it added grievously to her pain at the remembrance of it that the poor head which she had struck, had in the very same place been torn by a splinter—for so the doctor said. If her whip left any mark, the splinter had obliterated² it.

 

‘And syne³,’ he resumed, ‘ye ca’d me a cooard!’

 

‘Did I du that, ill wuman ’at I was!’ she returned, with tenderest maternal⁴ soothing⁵.

 

He laid his arms round her neck, drew her feebly toward him, hid his head on her bosom⁶, and wept.

 

Kirsty put her arm round him, held him closer, and stroked his head with her other hand, murmuring words of much meaning though little sense. He drew back his head, looked at her beseechingly⁷, and said,

分享到：