“Weel, noo I hae found her,” he answered, “an’ she’s what I hae been lookin’ for a’ my life.”
“How romantic you are,” she cried soulfully, with an admiring look.
“Aye, that I am, ’tis born in me,” he responded. “Do ye mind if I smoke, mum?” he asked carelessly. He took out of his waistcoat pocket his old black pipe and held it in his hand.
“Oh, no,” she gushed. “I love to see you smoke, ’tis so manly.”
Having lighted his pipe and got it drawing to his satisfaction, he turned to her once more, and remarked casually, “Would ye call me too old to get married? I’m askin’ your advice noo.” He looked at her quizzically.
She shook her head vigorously in the negative. “Age does not matter at all,” she observed sagely. “The question is do you feel peart?” and she regarded him with anxious eyes.
A grim smile played around Souter’s lips. Removing his pipe, he replied with convincing firmness, “Never was sick in my life, strong and healthy. Feel my muscle!” and he held out his doubled arm to the timid Eppy, who shrank away bashfully. “It willna’ hurt ye,” he declared. Thus encouraged, she gingerly touched it with one finger. “Fine, isn’t it?” he asked proudly. Before she could answer he continued, “I have a fine appetite, mum, an’ I dinna’ feel my age. Noo I ask ye, am I too ugly to be looked at, mum? Dinna’ be afraid to tell me the truth.” He held up his head, straightened his bent shoulders and stood awaiting her reply.
She eyed him a moment in silence. “Well, Mr. MacDougall,” she said doubtfully, after a pause, “I must confess you’re no beauty.” A look of disappointment came over Souter’s face, seeing which she hastened to reassure him. “But I care not for looks, Mr. MacDougall,” she cried earnestly. “One could get used to you. I’ve heard it said that one can get used to anything in time,” and she smiled sweetly into his downcast face.
He gave her a quick look.