“Ye dance bonnie, dearie, bonnie,” exclaimed Mrs. Burns delightedly, pouring her a cup of tea, which Mary drank gratefully.
“Oh, dearie me,” Mary said apologetically, putting down her empty cup, “whatever came o’er me? I’m a gaucie wild thing this day, for true, but I canna held dancin’ when I hear the pipes,” and she smiled bashfully into the kind face bent over her.
“Music affects me likewise,” replied Souter, trying to untangle the yarn from around his feet, but only succeeding in making a bad matter worse. “Music always goes to my feet like whusky, only whusky touches me here first,” and he tapped his head humorously with his forefinger.
“Souter Johnny, ye skellum!” cried Mrs. Burns, noticing for the first time the mischief he had wrought. “Ye’re not worth your salt, ye ne’er-do-weel. Ye’ve spoiled my yarn,” and she glared at the crestfallen Souter with fire in her usually calm eye.
“It was an accident, Mistress Burns,” stammered Souter, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other in his efforts to free himself from the persistent embrace of the clinging yarn.
With no gentle hand Mrs. Burns shoved him into a chair and proceeded to extricate his feet from the tangled web which held him prisoner. Soon she freed the offending members and rose to her feet. “Noo gang awa’,” she sputtered. “Ye’ve vexed me sair. Gang out and help Gilbert. I canna bide ye round.” Souter took his Tam O’Shanter, which hung over the fireplace, and ambled to the door.
“Very weel,” he said meekly, “I’ll go. Souter Johnny can take a hint as weel as the next mon,” and he closed the door gently behind him and slowly wended his way across the field to where Gilbert was sitting, dreamily looking across the moor.