“Gin a body meet a body comin’ thro’ the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body, need a body cry.”
A comical look of comprehension dawned on Souter’s face. “O—oh! I see, ’tis a kiss ye mean,” he answered lightly. “Weel, noo, I’ll na’ stop ye if ye want to kiss me. If you can stand it, I can,” and he held his face up to hers, for she towered a foot above him. With a sudden dart, a downward sweep of her head, she glued her lips to the little man’s, then with a resounding smack she released him, with a sigh of absolute content upon her homely face. “Weel, noo, that’s not half bad,” observed Souter, smacking his lips reflectively.
“Now, Souter,” declared Eppy decidedly, after they had walked a few paces in quiet, “since you are a Highlander, you must wear the kilt, to please me; and it must be the tartan of our clan.”
Souter threw up his hands in amazed horror. “Oh, dearie, dinna’ ask me to do that; I canna’ wear the kilt; I am na’ built that way,” and he looked down at his legs with whimsical seriousness.
“Then I’ll not marry you,” she declared with apparent firmness.
Souter hurriedly explained in trembling fear. “I’ll tell ye the truth, dearie: when I last wore the kilt the laddies laughed at my crooked legs an’ called me a scarecrow, an’ I swore then I’d ne’er show my bare legs to mortal man again. Would ye hae me expose my miserable defects, womman?”
She stood off and let her eyes rove slowly down his nether extremities with the air of a connoisseur. “I protest they do not look so badly,” she observed encouragingly.
“‘Keep on turning,’ she commanded.”