_Ch._ Oh, those eyes! _Bel._ The cottage has been pulled down, and the cottagers have emigrated to Patagonia---- _Ch._ Oh, those eyes! _Bel._ I’m the only witness left. _I_ can prove your marriage, if I like; but you can’t. Ha! ha! ha! ha! (_with Satanic laugh._) It’s a most painful and unfortunate situation for you; and, believe me, dear Cheviot, you have my deepest and most respectful sympathy. [_Exit BELVAWNEY._ _Ch._ This is appalling; simply appalling! The cup of happiness dashed from my lips just as I was about to drink a life-long draught. The ladder kicked from under my feet just as I was about to pick the fruit of my heart from the tree upon which it has been growing so long. I’m a married man! More than that, my honeymoon’s past, and I never knew it! Stop a moment, though. The bride can’t be found; the cottage is pulled down, and the cottagers have emigrated; what proof is there that such a marriage ever took place? There’s only Belvawney, and Belvawney isn’t a proof. Corroborated by the three cottagers, his word might be worth something; uncorroborated, it is worthless. I’ll risk it. He can do nothing; the bride is nowhere; the cottagers are in Patagonia, and---- [_At this moment MRS. MACFARLANE, MAGGIE, and ANGUS appear at the back. They stand bobbing and curtsying in rustic fashion to CHEVIOT (whom they do not recognize). He stares aghast at them for a moment, then staggers back to sofa._ _Ch._ The man, the woman, and the girl, by all that’s infernal! _Mrs. Mac._ Gude day, sir. We’ve just ca’d to see ye about the advertisement. (_Producing paper._) _Ch._ I don’t know you--I don’t know you. Go away. [_CHEVIOT buries his head in a newspaper, and pretends to read on sofa._ _Mag._ Ah, sir, ye said that we were to ca’ on ye this day at eleven o’clock, and sae we’ve coom a’ the way fra Dumfries to see ye. _Ch._ I tell you I don’t know you. Go away. I’m not at all well. I’m very ill, and it’s infectious. _Ang._ We fear no illness, sir. This is Mistress Macfarlane, the gude auld mither, who’ll cook the brose and boil the parritch, and sit wi’ ye, and nurse ye through your illness till the sad day ye dee! (_Wiping his eye._) [_CHEVIOT pokes a hole with his finger through newspaper, and reconnoitres unobserved._ _Mrs. Mac._ And this is Meg, my ain lass Meg! _Ch._ (_aside_). Attractive girl, very. I remember her perfectly. _Mrs. Mac._ And this is Angus Macalister, who’s going to marry her, and who’ll be mair than a son to me! _Ang._ Oh, mither, mither, dinna say it, for ye bring the tear drop to my ee; an’ it’s no canny for a strong man to be blithering and soughing like a poor weak lassie! (_Wiping his eye._) [_ANGUS and MRS. MACFARLANE sit. MAGGIE advances to hole in newspaper and peeps through._ _Mag._ Oh, mither, mither! (_Staggers back into Angus’s arms._) _Mrs. Mac._ What is it, Meg?