"What is it you will have been forgetting, Margaret?" said I.
"Oh—oh," says she, her face all suffused, "it will just be about a pup he was to be bringing me. . . ."
At that I took her with me. "Pup," said I; "pup, Margaret. What tale is this?"
"Cat or dog, or—or anything," she cried. "I am wanting him."
Bryde was at his horse's girths, and old Tam with a lanthorn.
"Bryde," cried the lass, "I am wanting you."
He had the horse out by this time, and I went away a little, but I heard her say—
"You never kissed my hand, sir—no, not in all your life."
"No, Mistress Margaret," said the boy.
"But why, why, why?" said she, and I laughed to see her stamp.