“It’s yersel, Sanders,” said Sam’l.

“It is so, Sam’l,” said Sanders.

“Very cauld,” said Sam’l.

“Blawy,” assented Sanders.

After a pause—­

“Sam’l,” said Sanders.

“Ay.”

“I’m hearin’ yer to be mairit.”

“Ay.”

“Weel, Sam’l, she’s a snod bit lassie.”

“Thank ye,” said Sam’l.

“I had ance a kin’ o’ notion o’ Bell mysel,” continued Sanders.

“Ye had?”

“Yes, Sam’l; but I thocht better o’t.”

“Hoo d’ye mean?” asked Sam’l, a little anxiously.

“Weel, Sam’l, mairitch is a terrible responsibeelity.”

“It is so,” said Sam’l, wincing.

“An’ no the thing to take up withoot conseederation.”

“But it’s a blessed and honorable state, Sanders; ye’ve heard the minister on’t.”

“They say,” continued the relentless Sanders, “’at the minister doesna get on sair wi’ the wife himsel.”

“So they do,” cried Sam’l, with a sinking at the heart.

“I’ve been telt,” Sanders went on, “‘at gin you can get the upper han’ o’ the wife for awhile at first, there’s the mair chance o’ a harmonious exeestence.”

“Bell’s no the lassie,” said Sam’l, appealingly, “to thwart her man.”

Sanders smiled.

“D’ye think she is, Sanders?”

“Weel, Sam’l, I d’na want to fluster ye, but she’s been ower lang wi’
Lisbeth Fargus no to hae learnt her ways.  An’ a’body kins what a life
T’nowhead has wi’ her.”

“Guid sake, Sanders, hoo did ye no speak o’ this afoore?”

“I thocht ye kent o’t, Sam’l.”

They had now reached the square, and the U.P. kirk was coming out.  The Auld Licht kirk would be half an hour yet.

“But, Sanders,” said Sam’l, brightening up, “ye was on yer wy to spier her yersel.”

“I was, Sam’l,” said Sanders, “and I canna but be thankfu’ ye was ower quick for’s.”

“Gin’t hadna been for you,” said Sam’l, “I wid never hae thocht o’t.”

“I’m sayin’ naething agin Bell,” pursued the other, “but, man Sam’l, a body should be mair deleeberate in a thing o’ the kind.”

“It was michty hurried,” said Sam’l, wofully.

“It’s a serious thing to spier a lassie,” said Sanders.

“It’s an awfu’ thing,” said Sam’l.

“But we’ll hope for the best,” added Sanders, in a hopeless, voice.

They were close to the Tenements now, and Sam’l looked as if he were on his way to be hanged.

“Sam’l?”

“Ay, Sanders.”

“Did ye—­did ye kiss her, Sam’l?”

“Na.”

“Hoo?”

“There’s was varra little time, Sanders.”

“Half an ’oor,” said Sanders.

“Was there?  Man Sanders, to tell ye the truth, I never thocht o’t.”

Then the soul of Sanders Elshioner was filled with contempt for Sam’l Dickie.