‘I’m sure I was na gaun to do you ony harm,’ was the reply;--‘no, as sure’s death, Betty, I would rather cut my finger than do you ony scaith, for I like you so weel--I canna tell you how weel; but, if ye’ll tak me, I’ll mak you the Leddy o’ the Plealands in a jiffy, and my mother says that my father will gie me a hundred pound to buy you parapharnauls and new plenishing.’ The young lady was probably conciliated by the manner in which this was said; for she approached towards him, and while still affecting to laugh, it was manifest even to Walter himself that she was not displeased by the alacrity with which he had come to the point. Emboldened by her freedom, he took her by the hand, looking, however, away from her, as if he was not aware of what he had done; and in this situation they stood for the space of two or three minutes without speaking. Miss Betty was the first to break silence:-- ‘Weel, Watty,’ said she, ‘what are ye going to say to me?’ ‘Na,’ replied he, becoming almost gallant; ‘it’s your turn to speak noo. I hae spoken my mind, Betty Bodle--Eh! this is a bonny hand; and what a sonsy arm ye hae--I could amaist bite your cheek, Betty Bodle--I could.’ ‘Gude preserve me, Watty! ye’re like a wud dog.’ ‘An I were sae, I would worry you,’ was his animated answer, while he turned round, and devoured her with kisses; a liberty which she instantaneously resented, by vigorously pushing him from her, and driving him down into her father’s easy chair; his arm in the fall rubbing off half a score of the old gentleman’s snuffy representatives. But, notwithstanding this masculine effort of maiden modesty, Miss Betty really rejoiced in the ardent intrepidity of her lover, and said, merrily, ‘I redde you, Watty, keep your distance; man and wife’s man and wife; but I’m only Betty Bodle, and ye’re but Watty Walkinshaw.’ ‘Od, Betty,’ replied Watty, not more than half-pleased, as he rubbed his right elbow, which was hurt in the fall, ‘ye’re desperate strong, woman; and what were ye the waur o’ a bit slaik o’ a kiss? Howsever, my bonny dawty, we’ll no cast out for a’ that; for if ye’ll just marry me, and I’m sure ye’ll no get any body that can like you half so weel, I’ll do anything ye bid me, as sure’s death I will--there’s my hand, Betty Bodle, I will; and I’ll buy you the bravest satin gown in a’ Glasgow, wi’ far bigger flowers on’t than on any ane in a’ Mrs. Bailie Nicol Jarvie’s aught. And we’ll live in the Plealands House, and do nothing frae dawn to dark but shoo ane another on a swing between the twa trees on the green; and I’ll be as kind to you, Betty Bodle, as I can be, and buy you likewise a side-saddle, and a pony to ride on; and when the winter comes, sowing the land wi’ hailstones to grow frost and snaw, we’ll sit cosily at the chumley-lug, and I’ll read you a chapter o’ the Bible, or aiblins ‘Patie and Rodger’,--as sure’s death I will, Betty Bodle.’