. . . She's younger than me by ten year, and never was ill. . . . We've
been mairit twal' year last Martinmas, but it's juist like a year the
day. . . . A' wes never worthy o' her, the bonniest, snoddest (neatest),
kindliest lass in the Glen. . . . A' never cud mak' oot hoo she
ever lookit at me, 'at hesna hed ae word tae say about her till it's
ower-late. . . . She didna cuist up to me that a' wesna worthy o'
her--no her; but aye she said, 'Yir ma ain gudeman, and nane cud be
kinder tae me.' . . . An' a' wes minded tae be kind, but a' see noo mony
little trokes a' micht hae dune for her, and noo the time is by. . . .
Naebody kens hoo patient she wes wi' me, and aye made the best o' me,
an' never pit me tae shame afore the fouk. . . . An' we never hed
ae cross word, no ane in twal' year. . . . We were mair nor man and
wife--we were sweethearts a' the time. . . . Oh, ma bonnie lass, what
'ill the bairnies an' me dae without ye, Annie?"
The winter night was falling fast, the snow lay deep upon the ground,
and the merciless north wind moaned through the close as Tammas wrestled
with his sorrow dry-eyed, for tears were denied Drumtochty men.
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