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"No, I never shall forget. Hang the old 'Revolution'! I don't want to
hear another word of it. My head aches, and I'm hot. Oh, wouldn't I
like to go for a pull in the 'Stormy Petrel!"' and poor Mac tossed
about as if he did not know what to do with himself.
"Let me sing, and perhaps you'll drop off; then the day will seem
shorter," said Rose, taking up a fan and sitting down beside him.
"Perhaps I shall; I didn't sleep much last night, and when I did I
dreamed like fun. See here, you tell the people that I know, and it's
all right, and I don't want them to talk about it or howl over me.
That's all; now drone away, and I'll try to sleep. Wish I could for a
year, and wake up cured."
"Oh, I wish, I wish you could!"
Rose said it so fervently that Mac was moved to grope for her
apron and hold on to a corner of it, as if it was comfortable to feel
her near him. But all he said was
"You are a good little soul, Rosy. Give us 'The Birks'; that is a
drowsy one that always sends me off."
Quite contented with this small return for all her sympathy, Rose
waved her fan and sang, in a dreamy tone, the pretty Scotch air, the
burden of which is
"Bonny lassie, will ye gang, will ye gang
To the Birks of Aberfeldie?"
Whether the lassie went or not I cannot say, but the laddie was off
to the land of Nod, in about ten minutes, quite worn out with
hearing the bad tidings and the effort to bear them manfully.
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