“What made you so cruel?”
“Weel, ye see, mem,—I mean my leddy,—fowk said I was ill aboot the bride; an’ sae I bude to dance ’t oot o’ their heids.”
“And how much truth was there in what they said?” she asked, with a sly glance up in the handsome, now glowing face.
“Gien there was ony, there was unco little,” he replied. “The chield’s walcome till her for me. But she was the bonniest lassie we had.—It was what we ca’ a penny weddin’,” he went on, as if willing to change the side of the subject.
“And what’s a penny wedding?”
“It’s a’ kin’ o’ a custom amo’ the fishers. There’s some gey puir fowk amon’ ’s, ye see, an’ whan a twa o’ them merries, the lave o’ ’s wants to gie them a bit o’ a start like. Sae we a’ gang to the weddin’ an’ eats an’ drinks plenty, an’ pays for a’ ’at we hae; and they mak’ a guid profit oot o’ ’t, for the things doesna cost them nearhan’ sae muckle as we pay. So they hae a guid han’fu’ ower for the plenishin’.”
“And what do they give you to eat and drink?” asked the girl, making talk.
“Ow, skate an’ mustard to eat, an’ whusky to drink,” answered the lad, laughing. “But it’s mair for the fun. I dinna care muckle aboot whusky an’ that kin’ o’ thing mysel’. It’s the fiddles an the dancin’ ’at I like.”
“You have music, then?”
“Ay; jist the fiddles an’ the pipes.”