he
bade his man, 'an' serve it around.'

So with a taste of sour ale in their mouths man and wife rode forth from
Hawick the airt of Peel Fell.

Robson's good mare--her head turned homeward--went forward at a good
trot and recked little of her double burden.

'What ails ye?' inquired Robson shortly, feeling that his bride was
shaking in curious fashion behind him on her pillion.

'I was juist laughin',' responded Meg, 'at oor venture, for here we are
newly marrit an' I dinna even ken your name richtly; ye are a Robson, I
ken, an' "Wudspurs" is your toname, but whatten's your hame name?'

'My father and mother aye called me Si,' responded Robson. 'Ye can call
me that, an' ye like.'

Meg kept silence a while, then she said coaxingly, 'Si is a pretty name
eneuch; 'tis short an' sweet; gie me a kiss, Si,' she wheedled, with a
gentle clasp about his waist.

'I'll kiss ye when we win home,' replied her husband cautiously.

'But just ae kiss--to gang on wi',' coaxed Meg further.

Si turned half about and smacked his wife upon her rosy cheek, which
seemingly he found satisfactory.

'Plenty more for ye when we sit i' the ingle neuk together the night,'
he said.

Meg, enchanted at this prospect, said no more, but looked about her as
they rode up the Slitrig water.

They could see the twisted horn of Pencrist and the round Maiden Paps on
their right hand, and on their left bare Carlin Tooth on the outermost
edge of Carter Bar; they were soon out upon the bare moorlands that
stretch away to the water of Tyne on the one side and to the waters of
Liddle on the other.

As they slowly ascended by the skirts of Peel Fell Meg broke the silence
again.

'Ye arena marrit a'ready?' she inquired, as a sudden suspicion assailed
her.

'No fears,' retorted Si with conviction.

'Weel, ye are the noo,' said Meg to herself, slightly increasing her
hold on her man.

'Then wha is 't that fends for ye?' she asked further.

'I hae an old wife--the shepherd's--that bides with me,' replied Si.

'She'll no' fend for ye the way I can,' returned Meg, 'for I can bake
an' mak ye sowans, scones, brose, kail o' all kinds, an' parritch.'

'I'd be fain o' some here and now,' replied Si,[3] 'for ye are not very
hospitable in Hawick. A sup sour ale's all I've had since I took the
fell yestreen.'

'Puir laddie!' said Meg sympathetically. 'There was sic an unco
carfuffle that I had clean forgot the vivers.' Then, preparing to
descend fro