"You needn't stand so. You don't think I would go on dressing while
you remained in sight?"
"I was as guid's awa', mem," he said, and turning a glowing face,
looked at her for a moment, then cast his eyes on the ground.
"Tell me what you mean by not thanking me," she insisted.
"They wad be dull thanks, mem, that war thankit afore I kenned what
for."
"For allowing you to carry me ashore, of course."
"Be thankit, mem, wi' a' my hert. Will I gang doon o' my knees?"
"No. Why should you go on your knees?"
"'Cause ye're 'maist ower bonny to luik at stan'in', mem, an' I'm
feared for angerin' ye."
"Don't say ma'am to me."
"What am I to say, than, mem?--I ask yer pardon, mem."
"Say my lady. That's how people speak to me."
"I thocht ye bude (behoved) to be somebody by ordinar', my leddy!
That'll be hoo ye're so terrible bonny," he returned, with some
tremulousness in his tone. "But ye maun put on yer hose, my leddy,
or ye'll get yer feet cauld, and that's no guid for the likes o'
you."
The form of address she prescribed, conveyed to him no definite
idea of rank. It but added intensity to the notion of her being a
lady, as distinguished from one of the women of his own condition
in life.
"And pray what is to become of you," she returned, "with your
clothes as wet as water can make them?"
"The saut water kens me ower weel to do me ony ill," returned the
lad. "I gang weet to the skin mony a day frae mornin' till nicht,
and mony a nicht frae nicht till mornin'--at the heerin' fishin',
ye ken, my leddy.
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