A comical look of comprehension dawned on Souter’s face. “O—oh! I see, ’tis a kiss ye mean,” he answered lightly. “Weel, noo, I’ll na’ stop ye if ye want to kiss me. If you can stand it, I can,” and he held his face up to hers, for she towered a foot above him. With a sudden dart, a downward sweep of her head, she glued her lips to the little man’s, then with a resounding smack she released him, with a sigh of absolute content upon her homely face. “Weel, noo, that’s not half bad,” observed Souter, smacking his lips reflectively. “Now, Souter,” declared Eppy decidedly, after they had walked a few paces in quiet, “since you are a Highlander, you must wear the kilt, to please me; and it must be the tartan of our clan.” Souter threw up his hands in amazed horror. “Oh, dearie, dinna’ ask me to do that; I canna’ wear the kilt; I am na’ built that way,” and he looked down at his legs with whimsical seriousness. “Then I’ll not marry you,” she declared with apparent firmness. Souter hurriedly explained in trembling fear. “I’ll tell ye the truth, dearie: when I last wore the kilt the laddies laughed at my crooked legs an’ called me a scarecrow, an’ I swore then I’d ne’er show my bare legs to mortal man again. Would ye hae me expose my miserable defects, womman?” She stood off and let her eyes rove slowly down his nether extremities with the air of a connoisseur. “I protest they do not look so badly,” she observed encouragingly. [Illustration: “‘Keep on turning,’ she commanded.”] “Looks are deceivin’, lassie,” quickly replied Souter, who objected seriously to kilts. “My legs are na’ my beauty point, for a’ that; they are just twa wee bones, I tell ye, so be prepared for the worst,” and he shook his head dolefully. “Oh, well, as Mr. Burns says, ‘A man’s a man, for a’ that!’” she replied sweetly. Then after a moment’s reflection, she asked with tender solicitude, “Are they so very wee, Souter?” “Aye, ye should see them,” he replied eagerly, hoping to convince her as to his unfitness to wear the dress. Eppy held up her hands before her face in horror. “Whatever are you saying, Souter?” “Weel, my legs are a maist sensitive subject wi’ me, my dear,” he returned apologetically. “Turn around,” she commanded. He did so in wonder. “Keep on turning,” she commanded. “I think, mayhap, they’re not so bad,” she observed after a critical inspection. “However, after we are wed I can decide better whether ye can wear the kilt or not.” Souter regarded her in meek astonishment, then he humbly rejoined, “Weel, if ye can stand their looks, I’ll na’ complain, but it’s o’er chilly at times,” and he shivered apprehensively. She laughed gayly. “Now, Souter, I must go home. Come over soon, you masterful man!” “Aye, the first thing in the morning,” retorted Souter calmly, “an’ I’ll bring the minister wi’ me.” “The minister! Why bring him?” asked Eppy in amazement. “To marry us, my dear,” replied Souter quietly. “You must be daft man!” she cried in sudden alarm.