Now all
was still as the church on a week-day, still as the school on a
Saturday afternoon. Nay, the silence seemed to have settled down
like the dust, and grown old and thick, so dead and old that the
ghost of the ancient noise had arisen to haunt the place.
Thither would Robert carry his violin, and there would he woo her.
'I'm thinkin' I maun tak her wi' me the nicht, Sanders,' he said,
holding the fiddle lovingly to his bosom, after he had finished his
next lesson.
The shoemaker looked blank.
'Ye're no gaein' to desert me, are ye?'
'Na, weel I wat!' returned Robert. 'But I want to try her at hame.
I maun get used till her a bittie, ye ken, afore I can du onything
wi' her.'
'I wiss ye had na brought her here ava. What I am to du wantin'
her!'
'What for dinna ye get yer ain back?'
'I haena the siller, man. And, forbye, I doobt I wadna be that sair
content wi' her noo gin I had her. I used to think her gran'. But
I'm clean oot o' conceit o' her. That bonnie leddy's ta'en 't clean
oot o' me.'
'But ye canna hae her aye, ye ken, Sanders. She's no mine. She's
my grannie's, ye ken.'
'What's the use o' her to her? She pits nae vailue upon her. Eh,
man, gin she wad gie her to me, I wad haud her i' the best o' shune
a' the lave o' her days.'
'That wadna be muckle, Sanders, for she hasna had a new pair sin'
ever I mind.'
'But I wad haud Betty in shune as weel.'
'Betty pays for her ain shune, I reckon.
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