"Annie was first," I said, "and we'll toss up for the other arm." "Let Margaret get it," said Janet mischievously, and Margaret's nose went almost imperceptibly higher in the air. "Excellent!" I said, and I took her arm and placed it through mine. Janet and Ellen walked behind, and they sniggered a good deal. "Just fancy the mester noo!" said Janet, "linkit wi' Maggie! He'll hae to marry her noo, Ellen!" And poor Margaret became very red and began to talk at a great rate. "G'wa, Jan," I heard Ellen say, "he's far ower auld. Maggie's only twenty next month, and he's--he could be her faither." "He's no very auld, Ellen; he hasna a mootache yet!" "Aw wudna like a man wi' a mootache, Jan; Liz Macqueen says that she gave up Jock Wilson cos his mootache was ower kittly." "Weel, she was tellin' a big lee," said Janet firmly. "If she loved him she wud ha' telt him to shave it off." We lay down in the wood at the top of the hill. Annie was in a reminiscent mood. "D'ye mind the letters we used to write to one another?" she asked. I pretended that I had forgotten them. "Do ye no mind? One day when I wasna attendin' to the lesson ye wrote 'Annie Miller is sacked' on a bit paper and gave it to me?" "Ah, yes, I remember, Annie, now that you come to mention it. But I can't remember your reply." "Aw took another bit o' paper, and Aw wrote: 'Mr. Neill is sacked for not making me attend.'" "Yes, you besom, I remember now. I'll sack you!" and I rolled her over in the grass. "There was another letter, Annie," I said, "do you remember it?" and she said "No!" so quickly that I knew she did remember it. I turned to Margaret. "Annie came to school one day with her hair most beautifully done in ringlets," I explained, "and of course I fell in love with her at once. I wrote her a letter.... 'My Dear Annie, do you think yourself bonny to-day?' and the wee besom replied: 'No, I don't!' Then I wrote her again.... 'Do you ever tell lies?' and to this she answered: 'No, never!' Then I calmly handed her the _Life of George Washington_." "But Aw never read it!" she cried with a gay laugh. "I know ... and that's why you have never reformed, my dear kid," I said. "Ellen," said Janet, "d'ye mind that day when you and me got up and walked oot o' the room?" "What day was that?" I asked; "you two went out of the room so often that I gave up trying to see you." "It was the day when a man cam to the schule and stood in the room when ye was teachin' us. There was a new boy, the caravan boy that had never been to schule in his life, and ye said that he was better than any o' us." "So Jan and me took the tig," said Ellen, "and we went oot and sat on the dike." Janet hee-heed. "D'ye mind what we said, Ellen? We said we werena to go back to the schule; we were to go up to Rinsley schule to Mester Lawson." "Aye," said Ellen, "and we said we wudna gie ye another sweetie ... no, never!" "And I suppose you gave me sweeties next day?" I suggested.