A Daughter of Fife

The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star is near

And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her e'en sae clear;

The violet's for modesty, which weel she fa's to wear

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band of love,

And I'll place it on her breast, and I'll swear by a' above.

That to the latest breath o' life the band shall ne'er remove.

And this will be a posie to my ain dear May.

The last long drawn notes of melancholy sweetness were scarcely still,

when a servant entered. "The minister is here, sir."

"I had forgotten," said Campbell hastily. "There is an extra kirk session

to-night. It is about the organ, Mary. Will you go?"

"I would rather not. Every one will have his testimony to raise against

it, and I should get cross."

"Then good night, bairnies. I must not keep the minister waiting. Maybe

I'll be beyond your time. Don't lose your beauty sleep for me."

He left the room in a hurry, and in a few minutes the "bairnies" heard the

crunch of the retreating wheels upon the gravel. Mary continued at the

piano, lightly running over with one hand the music she happened to turn.

Allan stood on the hearth watching her. Both were intensely and

uncomfortably conscious of their position. At length Allan said, "Mary,

suppose you cease playing, and talk with me!"

"Very well." She rose slowly and turned with affected reluctance.

Affected, because she really wished for some satisfactory conversation

with him. The recollection of their last confidence was painful and

humiliating. She could hardly bear the idea of carrying its memory

throughout two years. Few as the steps were between herself and Allan, she

determined, as she took them, to speak with all the candor which her

position gave her the right to use; and at any rate, not to end their

interview again in debt to self-esteem. The strength of the Scotch mind is

in its interrogative quality, and instinctively Mary fell behind the cover

of a question.

"Why should we talk, Allan? Is there any thing you can say that will unsay

the words you have spoken?"

"You were not fair with me, Mary. You took me up before I had finished my

explanation."

"Oh, I think there was enough said."

"You made words hard to me, Mary. You forgot that we had been brought up

together on terms of perfect confidence. I always held you as my sister. I

told you all my boyish secrets, all the troubles and triumphs of my

college life, all my youthful entanglements. I had few, very few, secrets

from you. I think we both understood by implication--rather than by

explanation--that it was our father's intention to unite the two branches

of the Drumloch family, and so also unite their wealth by our marriage."