indeed.

"It was cuttit intil lengths like the metre psalms, but it luikit
gye an' daft like, sae I didna' read it," said the cuif hastily.
"Here it's to ye, Meg. I was e'en gaun to licht my cutty wi't."
Something shone gray-white in Saunders's hand as he held it out to
Meg, It passed into Meg's palm, and then was seen no more.

The session at the house end was breaking up. Jess had vanished
silently. Ebie Farrish was not. Jock Forrest had folded his tent
and stolen away. Meg and Saunders were left alone. It was his
supreme opportunity.

He leaned over towards his sweetheart. His blue bonnet had fallen
to the ground, and there was a distinct odour of warm candle-
grease in the air.

"Meg," he said, "yer maist amazin' bonny, an' I'm that fond o' ye
that I am faain' awa' frae my meat! O Meg, woman, I think o' ye i'
the mornin' afore the Lord's Prayer, I sair misdoot! Guid forgie
me! I find mysel' whiles wonderin' gin I'll see ye the day afore I
can gang ower in my mind the graves that's to howk, or gin
Birsie's oats are dune. O Meg, Meg, I'm that fell fond o' ye that
I gruppit that thrawn speldron Birsie's hint leg juist i' the
fervour o' thinkin' o' ye."

"Hoo muckle hae ye i' the week?" said Meg, practically, to bring
the matter to a point.

"A pound a week," said Saunders Mowdiewort, promptly, who though a