'She's gotten a pose e'y bank, an' her granny's a bien auld body, wi' naebody else to leave her gear til,' he continued, 'wha kens?' but here the soliloquy died into deeper reflection, and he tramped along in meditative silence. How comfortable and respected he might be, established in the granny's croft, as master, with Jean to minister to him and keep things brisk, with an occasional passage of wordy warfare. But the shadow of Tibbie rose in his mind and blocked the path. She would forbid the banns and involve his schemes in utter confusion, unless she could be quieted. He thought over his conversation with Mrs. Sangster. Oh! If Tibbie had only been there to hear it too! Some idea might have struck her, that would have induced her to loosen her hold on him, and try for higher game. We can but judge others by ourselves, and he knew that with himself an arithmetical consideration was the weightiest that could be presented, and that a pretext by which pounds might be extorted unjustly, would seem more attractive than an honest claim which could only be realized in shillings and pence. If she would only slacken her hold on him for a very little while, he thought he could manage that she should never renew it again. So reflecting, he reached home. It was Saturday evening, and there were the usual preparations to make on the braeside for the services of the morrow, and thither he now repaired. The evening's shadows were gathering round the tent, and creeping up the brae--sad and transparent like ghosts of the good resolutions begotten there last Sunday, and since then smothered and trampled to death in the hurry and busy turmoil of the world's life; or so they might have appeared had any pious and pensive soul been there to witness them, but there were none such. Only Tibbie Tirpie rose from the tent or pulpit steps, to confront Joseph as he approached key in hand. 'Tibbie? Hoo's a' wi' ye, woman? A sicht o' ye's gude for sair e'eri.' It's lang sin' we hae forgathered.' 'Juist sin' last Sawbith! An' ye hae na dune as ye said ye wad, yet--sae the langer time the mair shame to ye.' 'Ye canna weel say that noo, Tibbie! come! I said I wad speak t'ey minister for ye, an' there's naebody e'y clachan but kens he gied ye siller. Was na that keepin' tryst?' 'What kind o' a gowk do ye tak me for, Joseph Smiley? Think ye ye'r to slip through my fingers that gate? Ye ken brawly it's no the minister's siller I'm seekin', it's yours, an yersel' alang wi't. An' that I'se hae, an gin ye winna richt my lassie by fair means, I'se gang to Mester Sangster an' the minister an' shame ye, an that'll be the last o' yer bederalship, an' the end o' ye a' thegither round Glen Effick. Think ye I'll let ye aff o' the scathe, when my puir Tib has to thole the scorn?'