One might well be inclined to ask what could have tempted her to talk in such a familiar way to a creature like him--human indeed, but separated from her by a gulf more impassable far than that which divided her from the thrones, principalities, and powers of the upper regions? And how is the fact to be accounted for, that here she put out a dainty foot, and reaching for one of her stockings, began to draw it gently over the said foot? Either her sense of his inferiority was such that she regarded his presence no more than that of a dog, or, possibly, she was tempted to put his behaviour to the test. He, on his part, stood quietly regarding the operation, either that, with the instinct of an inborn refinement, he was aware he ought not to manifest more shamefacedness than the lady herself, or that he was hardly more accustomed to the sight of gleaming fish than the bare feet of maidens. “I’m thinkin’, my leddy,” he went on, in absolute simplicity, “that sma’ fut o’ yer ain has danced mony a braw dance on mony a braw flure.” “How old do you take me for then?” she rejoined, and went on drawing the garment over her foot by the shortest possible stages. “Ye’ll no be muckle ower twenty,” he said. “I’m only sixteen,” she returned, laughing merrily. “What _will_ ye be or ye behaud!” he exclaimed, after a brief pause of astonishment. “Do you ever dance in this part of the country?” she asked, heedless of his surprise. “No that muckle, at least amo’ the fisher-fowks, excep’ it be at a weddin’. I was at ane last nicht.” “And did you dance?” “’Deed did I, my leddy. I danced the maist o’ the lasses clean aff o’ their legs.” “What made you so cruel?” “Weel, ye see, mem,--I mean my leddy,--fowk said I was ill aboot the bride; an’ sae I bude to dance ’t oot o’ their heids.” “And how much truth was there in what they said?” she asked, with a sly glance up in the handsome, now glowing face. “Gien there was ony, there was unco little,” he replied. “The chield’s walcome till her for me. But she was the bonniest lassie we had.--It was what we ca’ a penny weddin’,” he went on, as if willing to change the side of the subject. “And what’s a penny wedding?” “It’s a’ kin’ o’ a custom amo’ the fishers. There’s some gey puir fowk amon’ ’s, ye see, an’ whan a twa o’ them merries, the lave o’ ’s wants to gie them a bit o’ a start like. Sae we a’ gang to the weddin’ an’ eats an’ drinks plenty, an’ pays for a’ ’at we hae; and they mak’ a guid profit oot o’ ’t, for the things doesna cost them nearhan’ sae muckle as we pay. So they hae a guid han’fu’ ower for the plenishin’.” “And what do they give you to eat and drink?” asked the girl, making talk. “Ow, skate an’ mustard to eat, an’ whusky to drink,” answered the lad, laughing. “But it’s mair for the fun. I dinna care muckle aboot whusky an’ that kin’ o’ thing mysel’. It’s the fiddles an the dancin’ ’at I like.” “You have music, then?” “Ay; jist the fiddles an’ the pipes.” “The bagpipes, do you mean?”