"Miss Alison Cray presents her compliments to—and requests the favor of their company at her marriage with Mr. Ivie McLean, on January 8th, at six o'clock."  
Tommy in his Sabbath clothes, with a rose from the Dovecot hot-house for buttonhole (which he slipped into his pocket when he saw other boys approaching), delivered them at the doors of the aristocracy, where, by the way, he had been a few weeks earlier, with another circular.
 
"Miss Alison Cray being about to give up school, has pleasure in stating that she has disposed of the good-will of her establishment to Miss Jessy Langlands and Miss S. Oram, who will enter upon their scholastic¹ duties on January 9th, at Hoods² Cottage, where she most cordially," and so on.
 
Here if the writer dared (but you would be so angry) he would introduce at the length of a chapter two brand-new characters, the Misses Langlands and Oram, who suddenly present themselves to him in the most sympathetic light. Miss Ailie has been safely stowed to port, but their little boat is only setting sail, and they are such young ones, neither out of her teens, that he would fain turn for a time from her to them. Twelve pounds they paid for the good-will, and, oh, the exciting discussions, oh, the scraping to get the money together! If little Miss Langlands had not been so bold, big Miss Oram must have drawn⁴ back, but if Miss Oram had not had that idea about a paper partition, of what avail the boldness of Miss Langlands? How these two trumps⁵ of girls succeeded in hiring the Painted Lady's spinet⁶ from Nether⁷ Drumgley—in the absence of his wife, who on her way home from buying a cochin-china met the spinet in a cart—how the mother of one of them, realizing in a klink that she was common no more, henceforth wore black caps instead of mutches (but the father dandered on in the old plebeian⁸ way), what the enterprise meant to a young man in distant Newcastle, whose favorite name was Jessy, how the news travelled to still more distant Canada, where a family of emigrants⁹ which had left its Sarah behind in Thrums, could talk of nothing else for weeks—it is hard to have to pass on without dwelling¹⁰ on these things, and indeed—but pass on we must.
 
The chief figure at the wedding of Miss Ailie was undoubtedly¹¹ Mr. T. Sandys. When one remembers his prominence¹², it is difficult to think that the wedding could have taken place without him. It was he (in his Sabbath clothes again, and now flaunting¹⁴ his buttonhole brazenly) who in insulting language ordered the rabble¹⁵ to stand back there. It was he who dashed out to the 'Sosh to get a hundred ha'pennies for the fifty pennies Mr. McLean had brought to toss into the air. It was he who went round in the carriage to pick up the guests and whisked them in and out, and slammed the door, and saw to it that the minister was not kept waiting, and warned Miss Ailie that if she did not come now they should begin without her. It was he who stood near her with a handkerchief ready in his hand lest she took to crying on her new brown silk (Miss Ailie was married in brown silk after all). As a crown to his audacity¹⁶, it was he who told Mr. Dishart, in the middle of a noble passage, to mind the lamp.
 
These duties were Dr. McQueen's, the best man, but either demoralized by the bridegroom, who went all to pieces at the critical moment and was much more nervous than the bride, or in terror lest Grizel, who had sent him to the wedding speckless¹⁷ and most beautifully starched¹⁸, should suddenly appear at the door and cry, "Oh, oh, take your fingers off your shirt!" he was through other till the knot was tied, and then it was too late, for Tommy had made his mark. It was Tommy who led the way to the school-room, where the feast was ready, it was Tommy who put the guests in their places (even the banker cringed to him), it was. Tommy who winked¹⁹ to Mr. Dishart as a sign to say grace. As you will readily believe, Miss Ailie could not endure the thought of excluding her pupils from the festivities, and they began to arrive as soon as the tables had been cleared of all save oranges and tarts²⁰ and raisins²¹. Tommy, waving Gavinia aside, showed them in, and one of them, curious to tell, was Corp, in borrowed blacks, and Tommy shook hands with him and called him Mr. Shiach, both new experiences to Corp, who knocked over a table in his anxiety to behave himself, and roared at intervals²² "Do you see the little deevil!" and bit his warts²³ and then politely swallowed the blood.
 
As if oranges and tarts and raisins were not enough, came the Punch and Judy show, Tommy's culminating triumph. All the way to Redlintie had Mr. McLean sent for the Punch and Judy show, and nevertheless there was a probability of no performance, for Miss Ailie considered the show immoral²⁴. Most anxious was she to give pleasure to her pupils, and this she knew was the best way, but how could she countenance²⁵ an entertainment which was an encouragement to every form of vice²⁶ and crime? To send these children to the Misses Langlands and Oram, fresh from an introduction to the comic view of murder! It could not be done, now could it? Mr. McLean could make no suggestion. Mr. Dishart thought it would be advisable to substitute another entertainment; was there not a game called "The Minister's Cat"? Mrs. Dishart thought they should have the show and risk the consequences. So also thought Dr. McQueen. The banker was consulted, but saw no way out of the difficulty, nor did the lawyer, nor did the Misses Finlayson. Then Tommy appeared on the scene, and presently retired²⁷ to find a way.
 
He found it. The performance took place, and none of the fun was omitted, yet neither Miss Ailie—tuts, tuts Mrs. McLean—nor Mr. Dishart could disapprove²⁸. Punch did chuck his baby out at the window (roars of laughter) in his jovial²⁹ time-honored way, but immediately thereafter up popped the showman to say, "Ah, my dear boys and girls, let this be a lesson to you never to destroy your offsprings. Oh, shame on Punch, for to do the wicked deed; he will be catched in the end and serve him right." Then when Mr. Punch had wolloped his wife with the stick, amid thunders of applause, up again bobbed the showman, "Ah, my dear boys and girls, what a lesson is this we sees, what goings on is this? He have bashed the head of her as should ha' been the apple of his eye, and he does not care a—he does not care; but mark my words, his home it will now be desolate³⁰, no more shall she meet him at his door with kindly³¹ smile, he have done for her quite, and now he is a hunted man. Oh, be warned by his sad igsample, and do not bash the head of your loving wife." And there was a great deal more of the same, and simple Mrs. McLean almost wept tears of joy because her favorite's good heart had suggested these improvements.
 
Grizel was not at the wedding; she was invited, but could not go because she was in mourning. But only her parramatty frock was in mourning, for already she had been the doctor's housekeeper³² for two full months, and her father had not appeared to plague her (he never did appear, it may be told at once), and so how could her face be woeful when her heart leapt with gladness? Never had prisoner pined for the fields more than this reticent³³ girl to be frank, and she poured out her inmost self to the doctor, so that daily he discovered something beautiful (and exasperating³⁴) about womanhood. And it was his love for her that had changed her. "You do love me, don't you?" she would say, and his answer might be "I have told you that fifty times already;" to which she would reply, gleefully, "That is not often, I say it all day to myself."
 
Exasperating? Yes, that was the word. Long before summer came, the doctor knew that he had given himself into the hands of a tyrant³⁵. It was idle his saying that this irregularity and that carelessness were habits that had become part of him; she only rocked her arms impatiently, and if he would not stand still to be put to rights, then she would follow him along the street, brushing him as he walked, a sight that was witnessed several times while he was in the mutinous³⁶ stage.
 
"Talk about masterfulness," he would say, when she whipped off his coat or made a dart³⁷ at the mud on his trousers; "you are the most masterful little besom I ever clapped eyes on."
 
But as he said it he perhaps crossed his legs, and she immediately cried, "You have missed two holes in lacing your boots!"
 
Of a morning he would ask her sarcastically³⁸ to examine him from top to toe and see if he would do, and examine him she did, turning him round, pointing out that he had been sitting "again" on his tails, that oh, oh, he must have cut that buttonhole with his knife. He became most artful in hiding deficiencies from her, but her suspicions once roused would not sleep, and all subterfuge³⁹ was vain. "Why have you buttoned your coat up tight to the throat to-day?" she would demand............