"He's no my sweetheart," says Margery, as I was stalking into the bit parlour. "I wonder what's brought the randering fool here."
This, I confess, was rather a damper; and had I not been weel versed in a woman's pawky ways, and kent that she was aye readiest to misca' them for whom she had the greatest regard, before folk, I'm not so sure, Richard, what might have been the upshot. I sat doun, however, as if I had not overheard her, and chatted awa to the miller's twa gaucy daughters, keeping a watchful eye on Margery a' the time, who did not seem to relish owre weel the attention I was bestowing on them. I saw plainly, indeed, that she was a little mortified, for she gaunted twice or thrice in the midst o' our pleasantry—no forgetting to put her hand before her mouth, and cast her eyes up to the watch that stood on the mantelpiece, as muckle as to say—"It's time we were stepping, lad." I kept teasing her, nevertheless, for a guid bit; and when at last we left the mill, and got on to the road that leads down to the Linthaughs, I says to her, "Will ye tak my arm, Margery dear?"
"Keep your arms," says she, "for them ye mak love till."
"That's to you, then," says I.
"Ye never made love to me in your life," says she.
"Then I must not ken how to mak it," says I; "but aiblins ye'll teach me."
"Schulemaisters dinna need to be taught," says she; "ye ken nicelies how to mak love to Betty Aitchison—at least to her siller."
This was the miller's youngest daughter.—"What feck o' siller has Betty?" says I.
"Ye can gang and ask her," says she.
"Hoot, what serves a' this cangling?" says I, taking hold o' her arm, and slipping it into mine—"you are as het in the temper as a jenny-nettle, woman."