“That’s a shocking bad hat you’ve got,” said Luckie to him one day, without any idea that she was anticipating a favourite English phrase by some years. “Of course, there’s nae chance of such a drucken blackguard as you ever being able to buy a new ane. But what wad you say, John, if I were to gie ye ane mysel’?” “I would say, much oblige t’ye, ma’am,” answered Jock, now for the first time in his life called by his proper Christian name. “Here is one, then,” said the widow, and at the same time produced a decent-looking chapeau, which, she said, had belonged to _him that was away_—meaning her late husband—and had only been three times on his head at the kirk, when, puir man, he was carried without it to the kirk-yard. Jock accepted the hat with great thankfulness, and made his old one skimmer into Luckie’s fire, where, it is needless to say, it was speedily roasted in its own grease. “Dear sake, Jock, man,” said Mrs Wishart, some days afterwards, “what kind o’ a landlady hae ye got at hame? She maun be nae hand at the shirts, I reckon; for fient a bit can ane ken ye on a Monday frae what ye are on a Saturday. Ye may be as touzly as ye like i’ the outside o’ your claes, but I wad aye like to see a man decent-like next the skin.” “Deed, mistress,” said Jock, “to let ye into a secret, I have nae great stock o’ linen, and whiles Mrs Ormiston’s a wee hurried in getting a shirt ready for me. I’m a gude deal between the hand and the mouth in that respect.” “Ye’re just the greatest ne’er-do-weel ever I kenned,” replied Mrs Wishart; “but yet, reprobate as ye are, I canna think o’ seeing ye gaun that gate frae ae week’s end to anither. Here’s four gude shirts that I hae unco little use for now-a-days. Better ye should wear them, than that they should gang to the moths. Tak them hame wi’ ye, man, and mak yoursel’ something trig, and dinna gang to think that I’m aye to be gi’ing ye the buffet without the bite.” Jock did as he was bid, and towards the end of the week Luckie Wishart asked him “if he ever thought o’ taking a walk on a Sunday evening wi’ his lass to Restalrig, to treat her wi’ curds and cream, or ony thing o’ that kind?” “Oh, I daresay I have, mistress,” said Jock, “in my day. But,” added he, looking askance at his resplendent sleeves, “somehow or other I’ve fallen out of a suit of Sunday claes, and, of course, nae lass ’ll gang wi’ a chiel like a beggar.” “Weel, Jock,” said the lady, “I think ye canna do better than just step into my auld gudeman’s claes bodily, and let us hae nae mair wark about it.” This was accompanied with a look so significant, that Jock could not pretend to misunderstand it. He all at once felt as if the stool which he had drawn in towards the fireside was burning under him, while all the burnished covers on the opposite wall looked like so many moons dancing in troubled water. “Od, mistress,” he stammered out, “are ye serious?”