There was Poosie Nancy in her stiffly-starched frilled cap and her new kirtle, complacently nodding here and there to all of her acquaintances as they flocked about her. Poosie Nancy was a merry old soul. For years she had been the mistress of the Arms Inn, the public house on the high road, where Souter and Tam O’Shanter were wont to idle away their time and, incidentally, their “siller.” Standing on one foot behind her was Molly Dunn. Molly was consciously resplendent in a new plaid frock, made by her own unskilled hands, and while it was certainly not a thing of beauty, it surely was a joy forever, to the lassies, who laughingly twitted her about her handiwork. But she heeded not their good-natured jibes. She was admiringly watching Daddy Auld, the little old minister, who sat in the midst of an admiring group of his parishioners at the other side of the room, who evidently stood in no awe of him, judging from the bursts of laughter which greeted his frequent attempts at jocularity. “Where is Tam O’Shanter, Souter Johnny?” suddenly asked old Bess, who was proudly doing the honors as mistress of ceremonies. Souter was assiduously paying court to the comely Poosie Nancy in the opposite corner with an eye to future possibilities. “He willna be here till late,” he replied impatiently, addressing the crowd. “I left him at the Arms Inn, an’ if he drinks much mair whisky, he will na’ be here at all, I’m thinkin’,” and he turned eagerly to his inamorata, who was fanning herself indifferently with a plantain leaf. “He’ll fall into the Doon some night an’ be drowned, sure as fate,” said she, carelessly dismissing the subject. “Take your partners for the reel!” shouted big Malcolm Macræ stentoriously, at this juncture. Old Donald tuned up his fiddle with gleeful alacrity. Souter ceremoniously offered Poosie his arm, which she condescendingly accepted, and majestically they walked to the middle of the floor. With much laughing and joking and good-natured rivalry, they were all quickly paired off, and soon the rafters rang with the happy voices of the hilarious dancers as they merrily sang to the tune that blind Donald was scratching out on his old and faithful, though unmelodious, fiddle.