A RUNAWAY RACE

Upon neighbouring stones, earth-fast, like two islands of an
archipelago, in an ocean of heather, sat a boy and a girl, the girl
knitting, or, as she would have called it, _weaving_ a stocking, and
the boy, his eyes fixed on her face, talking with an animation that
amounted almost to excitement. He had great fluency, and could have
talked just as fast in good English as in the dialect in which he was
now pouring out his ambitions--the broad Saxon of Aberdeen.

He was giving the girl to understand that he meant to be a soldier like
his father, and quite as good a one as he. But so little did he know of
himself or the world, that, with small genuine impulse to action, and
moved chiefly by the anticipated results of it, he saw success already
his, and a grateful country at his feet. His inspiration was so purely
ambition, that, even if, his mood unchanged, he were to achieve much
for his country, she could hardly owe him gratitude.

'I'll no hae the warl' lichtly (_make light of_) me!' he said.

'Mebbe the warl' winna tribble itsel aboot ye sae muckle as e'en to
lichtly ye!' returned his companion quietly.

'_Ye_ do naething ither!' retorted the boy, rising, and looking down on
her in displeasure. 'What for are ye aye girdin at me? A body canna lat
his thouchts gang, but ye're doon upo them, like doos upo corn!'

'I wadna be girdin at ye, Francie, but that I care ower muckle aboot ye
to lat ye think I haud the same opingon o' ye 'at ye hae o' yersel,'
answered the girl, who went on with her knitting as she spoke.