She tilted her face provokingly, but her eyes were still down.
“It's no manner o' use, Davie.”
“Iss, 'tis,” he coaxed.
“Niver.”
“Please.”
A lengthy pause.
“Well, then—” She looked up, at last, shy, trustful, happy; and the sweet lips were tilted further to meet his.
And thus they were situated, lover-like, when a low, rapt voice broke in
on them,—
'A dear-lov'd lad, convenience snug,
A treacherous inclination.'
“Oh, Wullie, I wush you were here!”
It was little M'Adam. He was leaning in at the open window, leering at the young couple, his eyes puckered, an evil expression on his face.