“’Deed ay, Bell; but arena they whiles real pleasant tae?”
“Ye may say that, David, for I’ve liked ye lang, an’ wonder’t if ever it wad come to this; an’ oh, David, I CAN lippen till ye perfectly wi’ a’ my heart.”
“That’s the way to speak, Bell; that’s wiselike. I’ll dae my vera best to make you comfortable.”
“So will I you, David—we’ll baith dae our best; an’ if we hae God’s blessin’ I think we’ll dae fine.”
A happier couple could not be found that night than these two, for love makes folks younger if not young.
“HA, HA, THE WOOIN’ O’T.”
Shortly after all was settled, David hummed rather than sung, lest he should be heard in the parlour, a favourite song of his, which, whatever we may think of its applicability to what we have hitherto known as a staid, solid woman like Bell, seemed to David “really a very bonnie sang—he was aye catchin’ himsel’ sing-singin’ at it, an’ it really was no’ far off what he thocht himsel’;” and, strange to say, douce Bell (although she said “stuff an’ nonsense” when he had finished it) turned a willing ear to the song, and nodded to herself in the looking-glass during the singing of it. If she did not apply the whole of it to herself, she evidently did not absolutely discard it all.
THE BLACK-E’ED LASSIE (by Charles Gray).
Air—My only jo and dearie O.
“Wi’ heart sincere I love thee, Bell,