“Ye’ll bide a wee, an’ hae something to eat?” Lisbeth asked Sam’l, with her eyes on the goblet.

“No, I thank ye,” said Sam’l, with true gentility.

“Ye’ll better.”

“I dinna think it.”

“Hoots aye, what’s to hender ye?”

“Weel, since ye’re sae pressin’, I’ll bide.”

No one asked Sanders to stay.  Bell could not, for she was but the servant, and T’nowhead knew that the kick his wife had given him meant that he was not to do so, either.  Sanders whistled to show that he was not uncomfortable.

“Ay, then, I’ll be stappin’ ower the brae,” he said at last.

He did not go, however.  There was sufficient pride in him to get him off his chair, but only slowly, for he had to get accustomed to the notion of going.  At intervals of two or three minutes he remarked that he must now be going.  In the same circumstances Sam’l would have acted similarly.  For a Thrums man, it is one of the hardest things in life to get away from anywhere.

At last Lisbeth saw that something must be done.  The potatoes were burning, and T’nowhead had an invitation on his tongue.

“Yes, I’ll hae to be movin’,” said Sanders, hopelessly, for the fifth time.

“Guid-nicht to ye, then, Sanders,” said Lisbeth.  “Gie the door a fling-to ahent ye.”

Sanders, with a mighty effort, pulled himself together.  He looked boldly at Bell, and then took off his hat carefully.  Sam’l saw with misgivings that there was something in it which was not a handkerchief.  It was a paper bag glittering with gold braid, and contained such an assortment of sweets as lads bought for their lasses on the Muckle Friday.

“Hae, Bell,” said Sanders, handing the bag to Bell in an offhand way as if it were but a trifle.  Nevertheless he was a little excited, for he went off without saying good-night.

No one spoke.  Bell’s face was crimson.  T’nowhead fidgeted on his chair, and Lisbeth looked at Sam’l.  The weaver was strangely calm and collected, though he would have liked to know whether this was a proposal.

“Sit in by to the table, Sam’l,” said Lisbeth, trying to look as if things were as they had been before.

She put a saucerful of butter, salt, and pepper near the fire to melt, for melted butter is the shoeing-horn that helps over a meal of potatoes.  Sam’l, however, saw what the hour required, and, jumping up, he seized his bonnet.

“Hing the tatties higher up the joist, Lisbeth,” he said, with dignity; “I’se be back in ten meenits.”

He hurried out of the house, leaving the others looking at each other.

“What do ye think?” asked Lisbeth.

“I d’na kin,” faltered Bell.

“Thae tatties is lang o’ comin’ to the boil,” said T’nowhead.

In some circles a lover who behaved like Sam’l would have been suspected of intent upon his rival’s life, but neither Bell nor Lisbeth did the weaver that injustice.  In a case of this kind it does not much matter what T’nowhead thought.