'A fayther wasna keen on the notion, and maybe ma mither had her doubts, but ma sister backed me up for a' she was worth—which was a guid deal jist then, for she was on the eve o' gettin' married to Adam Jamieson, and that easy agitated, her parents could refuse her naething.
When it was decided I was to gang, she fell on ma neck and bursted in tears.
"It's a noble deed ye're daein', Jemima," she says. "I wish I had been a better big sister to ye."
"Oh, we'll no' gang back on that," I says, generouslike, "and it's never ower late to mend, and ye'll maybe be wealthy someday."
Of course I didna really mean that she had ever been a bad sister, but then neither did she; folk'll say onything when a weddin's on.
I'm no' gaun to describe the weddin', paper bein' that dear, nor hoo I had to slope for the station afore the feast was entirely shifted. I'll merely mention that there wasna a dry hanky in the room, the gents bein' so galliant as to lend theirs to the ladies, after the latter's was soaked. Ye see, everybody was that vexed for the parents lossin' their twa dear daughters at one fell sweep.
Likewise I'll pass ower the railway journey. It was a terrible warm day, an' to tell ye the truth, I was that wearied wi' a' the excitement that afore long I was dozin', and twa hours had rolled awa' when I got a queer start, hearin' a voice cryin' the name o' ma station. I was but half awake when I found masel' wi' ma things on the platform; and the train gaed on again. When a young porter cam' up holdin' oot his hand, I was that confused that I gi'ed it a shake.
"I was only wantin' your ticket," says he; "but I'm delighted to see ye."
I'll no' deny that I blushed, but I managed to pass him ma ticket as if he had been dirt.
He looked at it.
"I doubt ye've been hasty," says he. "Ye've alit at the previous station."
"What station's this? " says I, no' believin' him.
He pinted to a board.
"If ye canna spell, I'll be glad to assist ye."
I read the name—"Sunnyburn."
"Oh, help!" says I, and sat doon on ma box. But I was up again like a shot. "The man cried oot 'Westerbay,'" I says, gey angry. "Wha was the man? Fetch a' the porters this instant!
"I'm the staff," says he, "except for the station master, and he's awa' to his tea."
"Was it him that cried oot the name?" says I.
"It was the staff," says he.
"Then can ye swear ye didna cry 'Westerbay'?"
At that he jamp. Then he doubled up his fist and gi'ed hissel' a dunt on the nose.
"Oh, criffens!" says he, "maybe ye're right. Ye see I got shifted here frae 'Westerbay' only a month back."
I collapsed on to ma faithful box.
"Oh, for ony favour, dinna cry!" he says.
"Cry?" says I. "I've a guid mind to yell! Oh, what for did your mither let ye be a porter?"
Jist then the station master cam' along.
"What's ado, lassie?" says he. "Lost your ticket?"
Weel, I'll say this for the porter: he told the truth and didna try to excupulate hissel'.
"See here, ma lad," says the station master, "when ye gang off duty the nicht, get a spade and dig a nice wee hole, and become a turnip. It's a' ye're fit for." Then he turned to me. "Fortunately it's no' vera serious for you, miss. The hoose ye're bound for lies aboot half-roads betwixt this and Westerbay station—less nor twa mile frae this. Peter here—afore he digs hissel' in—'ll get a barrow and hurl your box for ye. But first, come along wi' me, and the wife'll gi'e ye a cup o' tea."
There's a station master for ye! What an example to some o' them at the big city stations! An' his wife was jist as nice. She gi'ed me champion scones wi' honey frae her ain private bumbees. May Heaven reward her and her pets!
When I was ready to tak' the road, there was the porter waitin' wi' the barrow. He didna look as sheepish as I expected, but I soon seen that his face wasna adopted for lookin' sheepish, bein' like a horse's.
Weel, we set oot without speakin'. I kept ma heid up, and looked neither to right nor left till I tipped ower a stane and near fell on ma nose.
"Ye're no' used to country roads, I see," he says politelike.
"I hope I'll never be used to this road," I answers him.
After a while he tried again.
"I see your address is 'Seaview.' Ye'll get a view o' the sea there."
"Thanks for the warnin'," says I.
"I'll hold ma tongue," says he.
"Oh, speak to the birds if ye like," says I.
To ma surprise he didna say another word.
At last I took a squint at him. I hadna noticed it afore, but he had a game leg. That made me feel kin' o' different.
"Excuse me," says I, "but ha'e ye been at the wars?"