"But then they say, Saunders," said the minister, smilingly, "'the nearer the kirk the farther frae grace.'"
"'Deed, minister," said Saunders, "Grace Kissock is a nice bit lassie, but an' Jess will be no that ill in a year or twa, but o' a' the Kissocks commend me till Meg. She wad mak' a graund wife. What think ye, minister?"
Mr. Welsh relaxed his habitual severe sadness of expression and laughed a little. He was accustomed to the sudden jumps which his man's conversation was wont to take.
"Nay," he said, "but that is a question for you, Saunders. It is not I that think of marrying her."
"The Lord be thankit for that! for gin the minister gaed speerin', what chance wad there be for the betheral?"
"Have you spoken to Meg herself yet?" asked Mr. Welsh.
"Na," said Saunders; "I haena that, though I hae made up my mind to hae it oot wi' her this verra nicht—if sae it micht be that ye warna needin' me, that is—" he added, doubtfully, "but I hae guid reason to hope that Meg—"
"What reason have you, Saunders? Has Margaret expressed a preference for you in any way?"
"Preference!" said Saunders; "'deed she has that, minister; a maist marked preference. It was only the last Tuesday afore Whussanday [Whitsunday] that she gied me a clour [knock] i' the lug that fair dang me stupid. Caa that ye nocht?"
"Well, Saunders," said the minister, going out, "certainly I wish you good speed in your wooing; but see that you fall no more out with Birsie, lest you be more bruised than you are now; and for the rest, learn wisely to restrain your unruly member."