Missing . . .

"Do you think it wise?"

"Aye, it is time."

"Where will you go, what will you do?"

"Wot matter is it."

"You can’t just. . . leave . . . like this."

"Dinnae fash o’it.   It is nae impossible to contact me if ye so hae a wish to."

"But what about —"

"Shush.   Do nae worry so.   All will be fine."

"How do you know. . . I mean. . . you. . . here. . . them. . . it. . . it doesn’t look fine.   It looks rather unfine if you ask me.   What will I say or do?   How do I explain this?"

"I didna ask ye, now did I.   I do nae know wot ye will say or wot ye will do, but ye do nae need to explain anything.   If ye need me to put words in ye mouth, ye will nae like them.   As gently as I can say this to ye again, it is time."

"I don’t like this."

"It is time.   Ye will see it is necessary.   Now turn about and face the warmth o’the sun.   Remember always — in ye heart."