“If ye had been whaur ye ocht to hae been, and that was in the kirk, last Sunday, ye wad hae found me at my place,” said Erchie. “Here’s a bit bride’s-cake,” he went on, taking a little packet from his pocket. “The rale stuff! Put that below your heid at nicht and ye’ll dream aboot the yin that’s gaun to mairry ye. It’s a sure tip, for I’ve kent them that tried it, and escaped in time.” I took the wedding-cake. To dream of the one I want to marry is the desire of my days--though, indeed, I don’t need any wedding-cake below my pillow for such a purpose. “And who’s wedding does this--this deadly comestible--come from, Erchie?” I asked him. “Wha’s wad it be but Duffy’s,” said Erchie. “‘At 5896 Braid Street, on the 31st, by the Rev. J. Macauslane, Elizabeth M’Niven Jardine to James K. Duffy, coal merchant.’ Duffy’s done for again; ye’ll can see him noo hurryin’ hame for his tea when his work’s bye and feared ony o’ the regular customers o’ the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults’ll stop him on the road and ask him in for something. His wife’s takin’ him roond wi’ a collar on, and showin’ him aff among a’ her freen’s and the ither weemen she wants to vex, and she’s learning him to ca’ her ‘Mrs D.’ when they’re in company. He wasna twa days at his work efter the thing happened when she made him stop cryin’ his ain coals and leave yin o’ his men to dae’t, though there’s no’ twa o’ them put thegither has the voice o’ Duffy. I wadna wonder if his tred fell aff on accoont o’t, and it’s tellin’ on his health. ‘She says it’s no’ genteel for me to be cryin’ my ain coals,’ he says to me; ‘but I think it’s jist pride on her pairt, jist pride. Whit hairm does it dae onybody for me to gie a wee bit roar noo and then if it’s gaun to help business?’ I heard him tryin’ to sing ‘Dark Lochnagar’ on Friday nicht in his ain hoose, and it wad vex ye to listen, for when he was trampin’ time wi’ his feet ye could hardly hear his voice, it was that much failed. ‘Duffy,’ I says till him, takin’ him aside, ‘never you mind the mistress, but go up a close noo and then and gie a roar to keep your voice in trim withoot lettin’ on to her ony-thing aboot it.’ “Yes, Duffy was mairried on Hogmanay Nicht, and we were a’ there--Jirinet and me, and her niece Sarah, and Macrae the nicht polis, and a companion o’ Macrae’s frae Ardentinny, that had his pipes wi’ him to play on, but never got them tuned. It was a grand ploy, and the man frae Ardentinny fell among his pipes comin’ doon the stair in the mornin’. ‘Ye had faur ower much drink,’ I tellt him, takin’ him oot frae amang the drones and ribbons and things. ‘I’m shair ye’ve drunk a hale bottle.’ ‘Whit’s a bottle o’ whusky among wan?’ says he. If it wasna for him it wad hae been a rale nice, genteel mairrage.