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OU will nae doot wonder what has come ower me; but for the last three weeks I havena put pen to paper. And even noo, my mind is in sic a happy whirl o' confusion that I hardly ken whaur to begin or what to say first. Maister Fleming, the writer, has proposed to me, and I have consented to become his wife. The thing is like a dream, and when I wauken in the mornings I have to lie still and go ower scene efter scene in the wonderfu' drama o' the last few weeks, before I can believe it is true.
Maister Fleming is just sixty-three—I thocht he wis aulder—but he showed me the Family Bible where his birth is recorded—he gies ye proof for everything—and there it wis, sure enough, just sixty-three! Weel, at his age ye couldna expect muckle romance in makin' a proposal o' marriage; besides he had just buried his hoosekeeper, wha had been his faithfu' servant for thirty years; the proposal wis therefore made in a plain, business-like wye, and at the same time wi' sic grace and tenderness I could have gi'en him twenty hearts and hands if I had had them, or he had dune. I never kent what it wis to be sae won by a man before. And, when at last he put his airms roon my neck it is nae wonder I buried my face on his shouther and telt him I wud be his wife, and do a' in my power to mak' him happy.
Since then we have spent mony a couthy hour thegither, crackin'. I think, for a writer, he's the honestest man ever I met. He has already telt me a' his failings; he thinks it's best to begin that wye, but I think nane the less o' him for that.
