This
puzzled her. She could not understand things one could not mention.
"We're very grand the day, Marcella," he said, watching her curiously.
"Where are ye gaun?"
"I've come to see you," she said, sitting down in a shadowy corner.
"Have ye had breakfast? I saw ye, hours ago, swimming oot by the
nets. There's seed cake in yon box that Jock's wife's sent doon, and
buttermilk in the can."
Even indignation with her figure could not conquer her appetite, and she
divided the cake between them, eating her share before she spoke.
"Seed cake's the nicest thing in the world," she said at last. "I love
the wee blacks in it, don't you, Wullie? Wullie, when I'm dying I'll
come here and Bessie shall make seed cake. Then I shall never die. I
love the smell of it, too--it makes me think of the Queen of Sheba
bringing spices and gold to King Solomon."
"Ye seem to be having a fine queer lot of thoughts the day, Marcella,"
said Wullie, eating slowly and looking at her.
She flushed and looked away from him.
"I have, Wullie, horrible thoughts. About getting old."
"So old, lassie--ye're nearly a woman now," he said gently.
"Wullie, I won't be a woman! I hate it! The doctor's been telling me
disgusting things about being a woman. And so has Jean. Why should they
be weak and get ill? Oh, I won't! I'll do as I like.
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