"You little sacket," cried the Dominie, "how did you manage it?"
"I think I thought I was Betsy at the time," Tommy answered, with proper awe.
"She told me nothing about the weeping-willow at the grave," said the Dominie, perhaps in self-defence.
"You hadna speired if there was one," retorted Tommy, jealously.
"What made you think of it?"
"I saw it might come in neat." (He had said in the letter that the weeping-willow reminded him of the days when Janet's bonny hair hung down kissing her waist just as the willow kissed the grave.)
"Willows don't hang so low as you seem to think," said the Dominie.
"Yes, they do," replied Tommy, "I walked three miles to see one to make sure. I was near putting in another beautiful bit about weeping-willows."
"Well, why didn't you?"
Tommy looked up with an impudent snigger. "You could never guess," he said.