But on this particular Monday evening, John Menzies was just as merry as ever Sandie had seen him.
“The Lord,” he said, “liked a merry heart when it was sinless, and the Lord had been very good to him, and had blessed him in his basket and in his store, in his murlin and in his creel.”
To-night he had no less than half-a-dozen towsy polls and bright round faces to play to, for there would be no expedition to sea this evening.
The wind blew half a gale, and the breakers roared and fumed and foamed upon the beach, houses high, certainly as high as John’s little cottage, for ever and anon the green seas broke over the chimney, and, as the little fisherman expressed it, tirled the thatch.
It was cold enough, too, to make a fire a comfort, if only but to look at.
Mirth is catching, and even Sandie had sung several of his very best songs, while Eppie at the other side of the fire sat birling her knitting, her honest sonsy face quite wreathed in smiles.
After each song of Sandie’s, John went off into a rattling reel, and next moment the merry bairnies, laughing like sea-birds, were footing it on the light fantastic toe from end to end of the floor.
By-and-bye two or three of the herring-lassies opened the door and stood shyly there, until invited ben by Eppie and by John.
Their day’s work was all over, and they were dressed both neatly and cleanly, with bonnily braided hair, and tartan shawls around their shoulders.
Very humble lassies these were, hailing mostly from the far west, but how many a lady in high life might have envied their beautiful complexions and their pearly teeth, or the gentle smile that played around their ruby lips.