Then Cæsar squared his elbows across the table and wrote the letter to Philip. Pete never stood sponsor for anything so pious.
“Respected and Honoured Sir,—I write first to thee that it hath been borne in on my mind (strong to believe the Lord hath spoken) to marry on Katherine Cregeen, only beloved daughter of Cæsar Cregeen, a respectable man and a local preacher, in whose house I tarry, being free to use all his means of grace. Wedding to-morrow fortnight at Kirk Christ, Lezayre, eleven o'clock forenoon, and the Lord make it profitable to my soul.—With love and-reverence, thy servant, and I trust the Lord's, Peter Quilliam.”
Having written this, Cæsar read it aloud with proper elevation of pitch. Grannie wiped her eyes, and Pete said, “Indited beautiful, sir—only you haven't asked him.”
“My pen's getting crosslegs,” said Cæsar, “but that'll do for an N.B.”
“N. B.—Will you come for my best man?”
Then there was more talk and more laughter. “You're a lucky fellow, Pete,” said Pete himself. “My sailor, you are, though. She's as sweet as clover with the bumbees humming over it, and as warm as a gorse bush when the summer's gone.”
And then, affection being infectious beyond all maladies known to mortals, Nancy Joe was heard to say, “I believe in my heart I must be having a man myself before long, or I'll be losing the notion.”
“D'ye hear that, boys?” shouted Pete. “Don't all spake at once.”
“Too late—I've lost it,” said Nancy, and there was yet more laughter.
To put an end to this frivolity, Cæsar raised a hymn, and they sang it together with cheerful voices. Then Cæsar prayed appropriately, John the Clerk improvised responses, and Pete went out and sat on the bottom step in the lobby and smoked up the stairs, so that Kate in the bedroom should not feel too lonely.