“There faur ower mony palavers aboot it,” confided the coalman. “I wish it was ower and done wi’, and I could get wearin’ my grauvit at nicht again. Leezie’s awfu’ pernicketty aboot me haein’ on a collar when we gang for a walk.” “Oh, ye rascal!” said Jinnet roguishly. “You men! you men! Ah, the coortin’ time’s the best time.” “Ach! it’s richt enough, I daursay; but there’s a lot o’ nonsense aboot it. Ye get awfu’ cauld feet standin’ in the close. And it’s aye in yer mind. I went to Leezie’s close-mooth the ither nicht to whistle on her, and did I no’ forget, and cry oot ‘Coal!’ thinkin’ I was on business.” And thus it was that Jinnet’s tea-party came about. The tender pair of pigeons were the guests of honour, and Jinnet’s niece, and Macrae the night policeman, were likewise invited. Macrae was there because Jinnet thought her niece at thirty-five was old enough to marry. Jinnet did not know that he had drunk milk in Leezie’s dairy before Duffy had gone there, and he himself had come quite unsuspicious of whom he should meet. In all innocence Jinnet had brought together the elements of tragedy. There was something cold in the atmosphere of the party. Erchie noticed it. “Ye wad think it was a Quaker’s meetin’,” he said to himself as all his wife’s efforts to encourage an airy conversation dismally failed. “See and mak’ yer tea o’t, Mr Macrae,” she said to the night policeman. “And you, Sarah, I wish ye would tak’ yin o’ thae penny things, and pass the plate to Mr Duffy. Ye’ll excuse there bein’ nae scones, Mr Duffy; there hasna been a nice scone baked in the dairy since Leezie left. There’s wan thing ye’ll can be shair o’ haein’ when ye’re mairret till her, and that’s guid bakin’.” Macrae snorted. “What’s the maitter wi’ dough-feet, I wonder?” thought Erchie, as innocent as his wife was of any complication. “That’s the worst o’ askin’ the polis to yer pairties,--they’re no’ cless; and I’m shair, wi’ a’ Jinnet’s contrivance, Sarah wadna be made up wi’ him.” “A wee tate mair tea, Mr Macrae? Leezie, gie me Mr Macrae’s cup if it’s oot.” Macrae snorted again. “I’ll not pe puttin’ her to the bother, Mrs MacPherson,” said he. “Murdo Macrae can pe passin’ his own teacups wisout botherin’ anybody.” “Dough-feet’s in the dods,” thought Erchie, to whom the whole situation was now, for the first time, revealed like a flash. “I think, Jinnet,” said he, “ye wad hae been nane the waur o’ a pun’ or twa o’ conversation-losengers.” They ate oranges after tea, but still a depression hung upon the company like a cloud, till Erchie asked Macrae if he would sing. “Onything ye like,” said he, “as lang’s it’s no’ yin o’ yer tartan chats that has a hunder verses, and that needs ye to tramp time wi’ yer feet till’t. I’ve a flet fit mysel’, though my hert’s warm, and I’m nae use at batin’ time.” Macrae looked at Leezie, who had all night studiously evaded his eye, cleared his throat, and started to sing a song with the chorus--= ````"Fause Maggie Jurdan,