"I know her grandfather and grandmother well." "Dacent fowk!" said Stephen.
"They are that!" responded Donal, "-- as good people as I know!" "Wud ye du them a guid turn ?" asked the fisherman.
"Indeed I would!" "Weel, it's this, sir: I hae grit doobts gien a' be gaein' verra weel wi' the lass at the castel." As he said the words he turned his head aside, and spoke so low and in such a muffled way that Donal could but just make out what he said.
"You must be a little plainer if you would have me do anything," he returned.
"I'll be richt plain wi' ye, sir," answered Stephen, and then fell silent as if he would never speak again.
Donal waited, nor uttered a sound.

At last he spoke once more.
"Ye maun ken, sir," he said "I hae had a fancy to the lass this mony a day; for ye'll alloo she's baith bonny an' winsome!" Donal did not reply, for although he was ready to grant her bonny, he had never felt her winsome.
"Weel," he went on, "her an' me 's been coortin' this twa year; an' guid freen's we aye was till this last spring, whan a' at ance she turnt highty-tighty like, nor, du what I micht, could I get her to say what it was 'at cheengt her: sae far as I kenned I had dune naething, nor wad she say I had gi'en her ony cause o' complaint.

But though she couldna say I had ever gi'en mair nor a ceevil word to ony lass but hersel', she appeart unco wullin' to fix me wi' this ane an' that ane or ony ane! I couldna think what had come ower her! But at last--an' a sair last it is!--I hae come to the un'erstan'in o' 't: she wud fain hae a pretence for br'akin' wi' me! She wad hae 't 'at I was duin' as she was duin' hersel'-- haudin' company wi' anither!" "Are you quite sure of what you say ?" asked Donal.
"Ower sure, sir, though I'm no at leeberty to tell ye hoo I cam to be .-- Dinna think, sir, 'at I'm ane to haud a lass til her word whan her hert disna back it; I wud hae said naething aboot it, but jist borne the hert-brak wi' the becomin' silence, for greitin' nor ragin' men' no nets, nor tak the life o' nae dogfish.

But it's God's trowth, sir, I'm terrible feart for the lassie hersel'.

She's that ta'en up wi' him, they tell me, 'at she can think o' naething but him; an' he's a yoong lord, no a puir lad like me--an' that's what fears me!" A great dread and a great compassion together laid hold of Donal, but he did not speak.
"Gien it cam to that," resumed Stephen, "I doobt the fisher-lad wud win her better breid nor my lord; for gien a' tales be true, he wud hae to work for his ain breid; the castel 's no his, nor canna be 'cep' he merry the leddy o' 't.