On this Saturday evening Sam’l stood his ground in the square, until by-and-by he found himself alone.  There were other groups there still, but his circle had melted away.  They went separately, and no one said good-night.  Each took himself off slowly, backing out of the group until he was fairly started.

Sam’l looked about him, and then, seeing that the others had gone, walked round the town-house into the darkness of the brae that leads down and then up to the farm of T’nowhead.

To get into the good graces of Lisbeth Fargus you had to know her ways and humour them.  Sam’l, who was a student of women, knew this, and so, instead of pushing the door open and walking in, he went through the rather ridiculous ceremony of knocking.  Sanders Elshioner was also aware of this weakness of Lisbeth’s, but though he often made up his mind to knock, the absurdity of the thing prevented his doing so when he reached the door.  T’nowhead himself had never got used to his wife’s refined notions, and when any one knocked he always started to his feet, thinking there must be something wrong.

Lisbeth came to the door, her expansive figure blocking the way in.

“Sam’l,” she said.

“Lisbeth,” said Sam’l.

He shook hands with the farmer’s wife, knowing that she liked it, but only said, “Ay, Bell,” to his sweetheart, “Ay, T’nowhead,” to McQuhatty, and “It’s yersel’, Sanders,” to his rival.

They were all sitting round the fire; T’nowhead, with his feet on the ribs, wondering why he felt so warm; and Bell darned a stocking, while Lisbeth kept an eye on a goblet full of potatoes.

“Sit into the fire, Sam’l,” said the farmer, not, however, making way for him.

“Na, na,” said Sam’l; “I’m to bide nae time.”  Then he sat into the fire.  His face was turned away from Bell, and when she spoke he answered her without looking round.  Sam’l felt a little anxious.  Sanders Elshioner, who had one leg shorter than the other, but looked well when sitting, seemed suspiciously at home.  He asked Bell questions out of his own head, which was beyond Sam’l, and once he said something to her in such a low voice that the others could not catch it.  T’nowhead asked curiously what it was, and Sanders explained that he had only said, “Ay, Bell, the morn’s the Sabbath.”  There was nothing startling in this, but Sam’l did not like it.  He began to wonder if he were too late, and had he seen his opportunity would have told Bell of a nasty rumour that Sanders intended to go over to the Free Church if they would make him kirk officer.

Sam’l had the good-will of T’nowhead’s wife, who liked a polite man.  Sanders did his best, but from want of practice he constantly made mistakes.  To-night, for instance, he wore his hat in the house because he did not like to put up his hand and take it off.  T’nowhead had not taken his off, either, but that was because he meant to go out by-and-by and lock the byre door.  It was impossible to say which of her lovers Bell preferred.  The proper course with an Auld Licht lassie was to prefer the man who proposed to her.