"Is that you, Kirstie?" he asked. "Come in!"
"It's unco late, my dear," said Kirstie, affecting unwillingness.
"No, no," he answered, "not at all. Come in, if you want a crack. I am
not sleepy, God knows!"
She advanced, took a chair by the toilet table and the candle, and set
the rushlight at her foot. Something - it might be in the comparative
disorder of her dress, it might be the emotion that now welled in her
bosom - had touched her with a wand of transformation, and she seemed
young with the youth of goddesses.
"Mr. Erchie," she began, "what's this that's come to ye?"
"I am not aware of anything that has come," said Archie, and blushed,
and repented bitterly that he had let her in.
"O, my dear, that'll no dae!" said Kirstie. "It's ill to blend the eyes
of love. O, Mr. Erchie, tak a thocht ere it's ower late. Ye shouldna
be impatient o' the braws o' life, they'll a' come in their saison, like
the sun and the rain. Ye're young yet; ye've mony cantie years afore
ye. See and dinna wreck yersel' at the outset like sae mony ithers!
Hae patience - they telled me aye that was the owercome o' life - hae
patience, there's a braw day coming yet.
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