“There’s no a lassie mak’s better bannocks this side o’ Fetter Lums,” continued Pete. “Her mither tocht her that,” said Sam’l; “she was a gran’ han’ at the bakin’, Kitty Ogilvy.” “I’ve heard say,” remarked Jamie, putting it this way so as not to tie himself down to anything, “‘at Bell’s scones is equal to Mag Lunan’s.” “So they are,” said Sam’l, almost fiercely. “I kin she’s a neat han’ at singein’ a hen,” said Pete. “An’ wi’ ‘t a’,” said Davit, “she’s a snod, canty bit stocky in her Sabbath claes.” “If onything, thick in the waist,” suggested Jamie. “I dinna see that,” said Sam’l. “I d’na care for her hair, either,” continued Jamie, who was very nice in his tastes; “something mair yallowchy wid be an improvement.” “A’body kins,” growled Sam’l, “‘at black hair’s the bonniest.” The others chuckled. “Puir Sam’l!” Pete said. Sam’l, not being certain whether this should be received with a smile or a frown, opened his mouth wide as a kind of compromise. This was position one with him for thinking things over. Few Auld Lichts, as I have said, went the length of choosing a helpmate for themselves. One day a young man’s friends would see him mending the washing-tub of a maiden’s mother. They kept the joke until Saturday night, and then he learned from them what he had been after. It dazed him for a time, but in a year or so he grew accustomed to the idea, and they were then married. With a little help he fell in love just like other people. Sam’l was going the way of the others, but he found it difficult to come to the point. He only went courting once a week, and he could never take up the running at the place where he left off the Saturday before. Thus he had not, so far, made great headway. His method of making up to Bell had been to drop in at T’nowhead on Saturday nights and talk with the farmer about the rinderpest.