For two years it had been notorious in the square that Sam'l Dickie was thinking of courting T'nowhead's Bell, and that if little Sanders Elshioner (which is the Thrums pronunciation of Alexander Alexander) went in for her, he might prove a formidable rival. Sam'l was a weaver² in the Tenements³, and Sanders a coal-carter, whose trade-mark was a bell on his horse's neck that told when coal was coming. Being something of a public man, Sanders had not, perhaps, so high a social position as Sam'l, but he had succeeded his father on the coal-cart, while the weaver had already tried several trades. It had always been against Sam'l, too, that once when the kirk was vacant he had advised the selection of the third minister who preached for it on the ground that it came expensive to pay a large number of candidates. The scandal of the thing was hushed up, out of respect for his father, who was a God-fearing man, but Sam'l was known by it in Lang Tammas' circle. The coal-carter was called Little Sanders to distinguish him from his father, who was not much more than half his size. He had grown up with the name, and its inapplicability now came home to nobody. Sam'l's mother had been more far-seeing than Sanders'. Her man had been called Sammy all his life because it was the name he got as a boy, so when their eldest⁴ son was born she spoke⁵ of him as Sam'l while still in the cradle. The neighbors imitated her, and thus the young man had a better start in life than had been granted to Sammy, his father.  
It was Saturday evening—the night in the week when Auld⁷ Licht young men fell in love. Sam'l Dickie, wearing a blue glengarry bonnet⁸ with a red ball on the top, came to the door of a one-story house in the Tenements, and stood there wriggling⁹, for he was in a suit of tweed for the first time that week, and did not feel at one with them. When his feeling of being a stranger to himself wore off, he looked up and down the road, which straggles between houses and gardens, and then, picking his way over the puddles¹⁰, crossed to his father's hen-house and sat down on it. He was now on his way to the square.
 
Eppie Fargus was sitting on an adjoining dyke¹¹ knitting stockings, and Sam'l looked at her for a time.
 
“Is't yersel, Eppie?” he said at last.
 
“It's a' that,” said Eppie.
 
“Hoo's a' wi' ye?” asked Sam'l.
 
“We're juist aff an' on,” replied Eppie, cautiously.
 
There was not much more to say, but as Sam'l sidled off the hen-house, he murmured politely, “Ay, ay.” In another minute he would have been fairly started, but Eppie resumed the conversation.
 
“Sam'l,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye, “ye can tell Lisbeth Fargus I'll likely be drappin' in on her' aboot Mununday or Teisday.”
 
Lisbeth was sister to Eppie, and wife of Tammas McQuhatty, better known as T'nowhead, which was the name of his farm. She was thus Bell's mistress.
 
Sam'l leaned against the hen-house as if all his desire to depart had gone.
 
“Hoo d'ye kin¹ I'll be at the T'nowhead the nicht?” he asked, grinning in anticipation¹².
 
“Ou, I'se warrant ye'll be after Bell,” said Eppie.
 
“Am no sae sure o' that,” said Sam'l, trying to leer. He was enjoying himself now.
 
“Am no sure o' that,” he repeated, for Eppie seemed lost in stitches.
 
“Sam'l!”
 
“Ay.”
 
“Ye'll be speirin' her sune noo, I dinna doot?”
 
This took Sam'l, who had only been courting Bell for a year or two, a little aback.
 
“Hoo d'ye mean, Eppie?” he asked.
 
“Maybe ye'll do't the nicht.”
 
“Na, there's nae hurry,” said Sam'l.
 
“Weel, we're a' coontin' on't, Sam'l.”
 
“Gae wa wi' ye.”
 
“What for no?”
 
“Gae wa wi' ye,” said Sam'l again,
 
“Bell's gei an' fond o' ye, Sam'l.”
 
“Ay,” said Sam'l.
 
“But am dootin' ye're a fell billy wi' the lasses.”
 
“Ay, oh, I d'na kin, moderate, moderate,” said Sam'l, in high delight.
 
“I saw ye,” said Eppie, speaking with a wire in her mouth, “gae'in on terr'ble wi' Mysy Haggart at the pump last Saturday.”
 
“We was juist amoosin' oorsels,” said Sam'l,
 
“It'll be nae amoosement to Mysy,” said Eppie, “gin ye brak her heart.”
 
“Losh, Eppie,” said Sam'l, “I didna think o' that.”
 
“Ye maun kin weel, Sam'l, 'at there's mony a lass wid jump at ye.”
 
“Ou, weel,” said Sam'l, implying that a man must take these things as they come.
 
“For ye're a dainty chield to look at, Sam'l.”
 
“Do ye think so, Eppie? Ay, ay; oh, I d'na kin am onything by the ordinar.”
 
“Ye mayna be,” said Eppie, “but lasses doesna do to be ower partikler.”
 
Sam'l resented this, and prepared to depart again.
 
“Ye'll no tell Bell that?” he asked, anxiously.
 
“Tell her what?”
 
“Aboot me an' Mysy.”
 
“We'll see hoo ye behave yersel, Sam'l.”
 
“No 'at I care, Eppie; ye can tell her gin ye like. I widna think twice o' tellin' her mysel.”
 
“The Lord forgie ye for leein', Sam'l,” said Eppie, as he disappeared down Tammy Tosh's close. Here he came upon Henders Webster.
 
“Ye're late, Sam'l,” said Henders.
 
“What for?”
 
“Ou, I was thinkin' ye wid be gaen the length o' T'nowhead the nicht, an' I saw Sanders Elshioner makkin's wy there an oor syne¹³.”
 
“Did ye?” cried Sam'l, adding craftily¹⁴, “but it's naething to me.”
 
“Tod, lad,” said Henders, “gin ye dinna buckle¹⁵ to, Sanders'll be carryin' her off.”
 
Sam'l flung back his head and passed on.
 
“Sam'l!” cried Henders after him.
 
“Ay,” said Sam'l, wheeling round.
 
“Gie Bell a kiss frae me.”
 
The full force of this joke struck neither all at once. Sam'l began to smile at it as he turned down the school-wynd, and it came upon Henders while he was in his garden feeding his ferret. Then he slapped his legs gleefully, and explained the conceit¹⁶ to Will'um Byars, who went into the house and thought it over.
 
There were twelve or twenty little groups of men in the square, which was lit by a flare¹⁷ of oil suspended over a cadger's cart. Now and again a staid young woman passed through the square with a basket on her arm, and if she had lingered long enough to give them time, some of the idlers would have addressed her. As it was, they gazed after her, and then grinned to each other.
 
“Ay, Sam'l,” said two or three young men, as Sam'l joined them beneath the town-clock. “Ay, Davit,” replied Sam'l.
 
This group was composed of some of the sharpest wits in Thrums, and it was not to be expected that they would let this opportunity pass. Perhaps when Sam'l joined them he knew what was in store for him.
 
“Was ye lookin' for T'nowhead's Bell, Sam'l?” asked one.
 
“Or mebbe ye was wantin' the minister?” suggested another, the same who had walked out twice with Chirsty Duff and not married her after all.
 
Sam'l could not think of a good reply at the moment, so he laughed good-naturedly.
 
“Ondootedly she's a snod bit crittur,” said Davit, archly.
 
“An' michty clever wi' her fingers,” added Jamie Deuchars.
 
“Man, I've thocht o' makkin' up to Bell mysel,” said Pete Ogle¹⁸. “Wid there be ony chance, think ye, Sam'l?”
 
“I'm thinkin' she widna hae ye for her first, Pete,” replied Sam'l, in one of those happy flashes that come to some men, “but there's nae sayin' but what she micht tak ye to finish up wi'.”
 
The unexpectedness of this sally startled every one. Though Sam'l did not set up for a wit, however, like Davit, it was notorious that he could say a cutting thing once in a way.
 
“Did ye ever see Bell reddin' up?” asked Pete, recovering from his overthrow¹⁹. He was a man who bore no malice²⁰.
 
“It's a sicht,” said Sam'l, solemnly.
 
“Hoo will that be?” asked Jamie Deuchars.
 
“It's weel worth yer while,” said Pete, “to ging atower to the T'nowhead an' see. Ye'll mind the closed-in beds i' the kitchen? Ay, weel, they're a fell spoilt crew, T'nowhead's litlins, an' no that aisy to manage. Th' ither lasses Lisbeth's hae'n had a michty trouble wi' them. When they war i' the middle o' their reddin' up the bairns wid come tumlin' about the floor, but, sal, I assure ye, Bell didna fash lang wi' them. Did she, Sam'l?”
 
“She did not,” said Sam'l, dropping into a fine mode of speech to add emphasis to his remark.
 
“I'll tell ye what she did,” said Pete to the others. “She juist lifted up the litlins, twa at a time, an' flung them into the coffin-beds. Syne she snibbit the doors on them, an' keepit them there till the floor was dry.”
 
“Ay, man, did she so?” said Davit, admiringly.
 
“I've seen her do't mysel,” said Sam'l.
 
“There's no a lassie maks better bannocks this side o' Fetter²¹ Lums,” continued Pete.
 
“Her mither tocht her that,” said Sam'l; “she was a gran' han' at the bakin', Kitty Ogilvy.”
 
“I've heard say,” remarked Jamie, putting it this way so as not to tie himself down to anything, “'at Bell's scones²² is equal to Mag Lunan's.”
 
“So they are,” said Sam'l, almost fiercely.
 
“I kin she's a neat han' at singein' a hen,” said Pete.
 
“An' wi't a',” said Davit, “she's a snod, canty bit stocky in her Sabbath claes.”
 
“If onything, thick in the waist,” suggested Jamie.
 
“I dinna see that,” said Sam'l.
 
“I d'na care for her hair either,” continued Jamie, who was very nice in his tastes; “something mair yalloweby wid be an improvement.”
 
“A'body kins,” growled²³ Sam'l, “'at black hair's the bonniest.” The others chuckled²⁴. “Puir Sam'l!” Pete said.
 
Sam'l not being certain whether this should be received with a smile or a frown, opened his mouth wide as a kind of compromise. This was position one with him for thinking things, over.
 
Few Auld Lichts, as I have said, went the length of choosing a helpmate for themselves. One day a young man's friends would see him mending the washing-tub of a maiden's mother. They kept the joke until Saturday night, and then he learned from them what he had been after. It dazed him for a time, but in a year or so he grew accustomed to the idea, and they were then married. With a little help he fell in love just like other people.
 
Sam'l was going the way of the others, but he found it difficult to come to the point. He only went courting once a week, and he could never take up the running at the place where he left off the Saturday before. Thus he had not, so far, made great headway. His method of making up to Bell had been to drop in at T'nowhead on Saturday nights and talk with the farmer about the rinderpest.
 
The farm kitchen was Bell's testimonial. Its chairs, tables, and stools were scoured²⁶ by her to the whiteness of Rob Angus' saw-mill boards, and the muslin blind on the window was starched²⁷ like a child's pinafore. Bell was brave, too, as well as energetic. Once Thrums had been overrun with thieves. It is now thought that there may have been only one, but he had the wicked cleverness of a gang. Such was his repute that there were weavers²⁸ who spoke of locking their doors when they went from home. He was not very skilful²⁹, however, being generally caught, and when they said they knew he was a robber, he gave them their things back and went away. If they had given him time there is no doubt that he would have gone off with his plunder³⁰. One night he went to T'nowhead, and Bell, who slept In the kitchen, was awakened³¹ by the noise. She knew who it would be, so she rose and dressed herself, and went to look for him with a candle. The thief had not known what to do when he got in, and as it was very lonely he was glad to see Bell. She told him he ought to be ashamed of himself, and would not let him out by the door until he had taken off his boots so as not to soil the carpet.
 
On this Saturday evening Sam'l stood his ground in the square, until by and by he found himself alone. There were other groups there still, but his circle had melted away. They went separately, and no one said good-night. Each took himself off slowly, backing out of the group until he was fairly started.
 
Sam'l looked about him, and then, seeing that the others had gone, walked round the town-house into the darkness of the brae that leads down and then up to the farm of T'nowhead.
 
To get into the good graces of Lisbeth Fargus you had to know her ways and humor them. Sam'l, who was a student of women, knew this, and so, instead of pushing the door open and walking in, he went through the rather ridiculous ceremony of knocking. Sanders Elshioner was also aware of this weakness of Lisbeth's, but though he often made up his mind to knock, the absurdity³² of the thing prevented his doing so when he reached the door. T'nowhead himself had never got used to his wife's refined notions, and when any one knocked he always started to his feet, thinking there must be something wrong.
 
Lisbeth came to the door, her expansive figure blocking the way in.
 
“Sam'l,” she said.
 
“Lisbeth,” said Sam'l.
 
He shook hands with the farmer's wife, knowing that she liked it, but only said, “Ay, Bell,” to his sweetheart, “Ay, T'nowhead,” to McQuhatty, and “It's yersel, Sanders,” to his rival.
 
They were all sitting round the fire; T'nowhead, with his feet on the ribs³³, wondering why he felt so warm, and Bell darned a stocking, while Lisbeth kept an eye on a goblet³⁴ full of potatoes.
 
“Sit into the fire, Sam'l,” said the farmer, not, however, making way for him.
 
“Na, na,” said Sam'l; “I'm to bide³⁵ nae time.” Then he sat into the fire. His face was turned away from Bell, and when she spoke he answered her without looking round. Sam'l felt a little anxious. Sanders Elshioner, who had one leg shorter than the other, but looked well when sitting, seemed suspiciously at home. He asked Bell questions out of his own head, which was beyond Sam'l, and once he said something to her in such a low voice that the others could not catch it. T'nowhead asked curiously³⁶ what it was, and Sanders explained that he had only said, “Ay, Bell, the morn's the Sabbath.” There was nothing startling in this, but Sam'l did not like it. He began to wonder if he were too late, and had he seen his opportunity would have told Bell of a nasty rumor³⁷ that Sanders intended to go over to the Free Church if they would make him kirk-officer.
 
Sam'l had the good-will of T'nowhead's wife, who liked a polite man. Sanders did his best, but from want of practice he constantly made mistakes. To-night, for instance, he wore his hat in the house because he did not like to put up his hand and take it off. T'nowhead had not taken his off either, but that was because he meant to go out by and by and lock the byre door. It was impossible to say which of her lovers Bell preferred. The proper course with an Auld Licht lassie was to prefer the man who proposed to her.
 
“Ye'll bide a wee, an' hae something to eat?” Lisbeth asked Sam'l, with her eyes on the goblet.
 
“No, I thank ye,” said Sam'l, with true gentility.
 
“Ye'll better.”
 
“I dinna think it.”
 
“Hoots aye; what's to hender ye?”
 
“Weel, since ye're sae pressin', I'll bide.”
 
No one asked Sanders to stay. Bell could not, for she was but the servant, and T'nowhead knew that the kick his wife had given him meant that he was not to do so either. Sanders whistled to show that he was not uncomfortable.
 
“Ay, then, I'll be stappin' ower the brae,” he said at last.
 
He did not go, however. There was sufficient pride in him to get him off his chair, but only slowly, for he had to get accustomed to the notion of going. At intervals³⁸ of two or three minutes he remarked that he must now be going. In the same circumstances Sam'l would have acted similarly. For a Thrums man, it is one of the hardest things in life to get away from anywhere.
 
At last Lisbeth saw that something must be done. The potatoes were burning, and T'nowhead had an invitation on his tongue.
 
“Yes, I'll hae to be movin',” said Sanders, hopelessly, for the fifth time.
 
“Guid nicht to ye, then, Sanders,” said Lisbeth. “Gie the door a fling-to, ahent ye.”
 
Sanders, with a mighty³⁹ effort, pulled himself together. He looked boldly at Bell, and then took off his hat carefully. Sam'l saw with misgivings⁴⁰ that there was something in it which was not a handkerchief. It was a paper bag glittering with gold braid, and contained such an assortment⁴¹ of sweets as lads bought for their lasses on the Muckle Friday.
 
“Hae, Bell,” said Sanders, handing the bag to Bell in an off-hand way as if it were but a trifle. Nevertheless he was a little excited, for he went off without saying good-night.
 
No one spoke. Bell's face was crimson⁴². T'nowhead fidgeted on his chair, and Lisbeth looked at Sam'l. The weaver was strangely calm and collected, though he would have liked to know whether this was a proposal.
 
“Sit in by to the table, Sam'l,” said Lisbeth, trying to look as if things were as they had been before.
 
She put a saucerful of butter, salt, and pepper near the fire to melt, for melted butter is the shoeing-horn that helps over a meal of potatoes. Sam'l, however, saw what the hour required, and jumping up, he seized his bonnet.
 
“Hing the tatties higher up the joist, Lisbeth,” he said with dignity; “I'se be back in ten meenits.”
 
He hurried out of the house, leaving the others looking at each other.
 
“What do ye think?” asked Lisbeth.
 
“I d'na kin,” faltered⁴³ Bell.
 
“Thae tatties is lang o' comin' to the boil,” said T'nowhead.
 
In some circles a lover who behaved like Sam'l would have been suspected of intent upon his rival's life, but neither Bell nor Lisbeth did the weaver that injustice⁴⁴. In a case of this kind it does not much matter what T'nowhead thought.
 
The ten minutes had barely passed when Sam'l was back in the farm kitchen. He was too flurried to knock this time, and, indeed, Lisbeth did not expect it of him.
 
“Bell, hae!” he cried, handing his sweetheart a tinsel bag twice the size of Sanders' gift.
 
“Losh preserve's!” exclaimed Lisbeth; “I'se warrant there's a shillin's worth.”
 
“There's a' that, Lisbeth—an' mair,” said Sam'l firmly.
 
“I thank ye, Sam'l,” said Bell, feeling an unwonted elation⁴⁵ as she gazed at the two paper bags in her lap.
 
“Ye're ower extravegint, Sam'l,” Lisbeth said.
 
“Not at all,” said Sam'l; “not at all. But I widna advise ye to eat thae ither anes, Bell—they're second quality.”
 
Bell drew back a step from Sam'l.
 
“How do ye kin?” asked the farmer shortly, for he liked Sanders.
 
“I speired i' the shop,” said Sam'l.
 
The goblet was placed on a broken plate on the table with the saucer beside it, and Sam'l, like the others, helped himself. What he did was to take potatoes from the pot with his fingers, peel off their coats, and then dip them into the butter. Lisbeth would have liked to provide knives and forks, but she knew that beyond a certai............