"Only I think ye're mair like me than the lave of them.

Ye've mair of the poetic temper, tho' Guid kens little enough of the poetic taalent.

It's an ill gift at the best.

Look at yoursel'.

At denner you were all sunshine and flowers and laughter, and now you're like the star of evening on a lake." She drank in this hackneyed compliment like wine, and it glowed in her veins.
"But I'm saying, Dand"-- she came nearer him--"I'm for the muirs.