“Nothing ava,” said Sanders; “doun’t mention ‘d.”
“But, Sanders, ye canna deny but what your rinnin’ oot o’ the kirk that awfu’ day was at the bottom o’ ‘d a’.”
“It was so,” said Sanders, bravely.
“An’ ye used to be fond o’ Bell, Sanders.”
“I dinna deny ‘t.”
“Sanders, laddie,” said Sam’l, bending forward and speaking in a wheedling voice, “I aye thocht it was you she likit.”
“I had some sic idea mysel’,” said Sanders.
“Sanders, I canna think to pairt twa fowk sae weel suited to ane anither as you an’ Bell.”
“Canna ye, Sam’l?”
“She wid mak’ ye a guid wife, Sanders. I hae studied her weel, and she’s a thrifty, douce, clever lassie. Sanders, there’s no the like o’ her. Mony a time, Sanders, I hae said to mysel’, ‘There’s a lass ony man micht be prood to tak’.’ A’body says the same, Sanders. There’s nae risk ava, man—nane to speak o’. Tak’ her, laddie; tak’ her, Sanders; it’s a gran’ chance, Sanders. She’s yours for the speerin’. I’ll gie her up, Sanders.”