“I canna do ‘t, Sanders,” he said; “I canna do ‘t.”      

       “Ye maun,” said Sanders.     

       “It’s aisy to speak,” retorted Sam’l, bitterly.     

       “We have a’ oor troubles, Sam’l,” said Sanders, soothingly, “an’ every man maun bear his ain burdens. Johnny Davie’s wife’s dead, an’ he’s no repinin’.”      

       “Ay,” said Sam’l, “but a death’s no a mairitch. We hae haen deaths in our family too.”      

       “It may a’ be for the best,” added Sanders, “an’ there wid be a michty talk i’ the hale country-side gin ye didna ging to the minister like a man.”      

       “I maun hae langer to think o’ ‘t,” said Sam’l.     

       “Bell’s mairitch is the morn,” said Sanders, decisively.     

       Sam’l glanced up with a wild look in his eyes.     

       “Sanders!” he cried.     

       “Sam’l!”      

       “Ye hae been a guid friend to me, Sanders, in this sair affliction.”      

       “Nothing ava,” said Sanders; “doun’t mention ‘d.”      

       “But, Sanders, ye canna deny but what your rinnin’ oot o’ the kirk that awfu’ day was at the bottom o’ ‘d a’.”      

       “It was so,” said Sanders, bravely.     

       “An’ ye used to be fond o’ Bell, Sanders.”      

       “I dinna deny ‘t.”      

       “Sanders, laddie,” said Sam’l, bending forward and speaking in a wheedling voice, “I aye thocht it was you she likit.”      

       “I had some sic idea mysel’,” said Sanders.     

       “Sanders, I canna think to pairt twa fowk sae weel suited to ane anither as you an’ Bell.”      

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