.

"Goad, man, but I did!"

I could not understand.

"Man, on the road hame frae Kirrie Market I was to speer if she wud
marry me . . . but I didna."

We smoked silently for a long minute.

"Ye see," he went on slowly, "Maggie was a bonny lassie and I liked to
kiss and cuddle her, but kissin' and cuddlin' are a very sma' part o'
marriage, dominie. There was something in Maggie that I was aye
lookin' for, but cud never find. Aye, I tried to find it in other
lassies, but I never fund it."

"What was it you wanted to find, Dauvit?"

Dauvit paused.

"Ye micht call it a soul," he said. "Oh, aye," he went on, "Maggie was
a bonny lassie wi' a heart o' gold, but she hadna a soul. Wud ye like
to ken what stoppit me speerin' her that nicht as we cam through Zoar?
Man, I said to mysel: When we come to the toll bar I'll tak Maggie in
my arms and say: 'Maggie, I want ye, lassie!'"

He had to light his pipe here.

"Weelaweel, we got to the toll bar and I said: 'Maggie, we'll sit doon
on the bank for a while.' So we sat doon, and I was just tryin' to
screw up my courage when she pointed to the settin' sun. 'I'd like a
dress like that, only bonnier,' she said. Man, dominie, I looked at
that sunset wi' its gold and purple . . . and syne I kent that Maggie
was nae wife for me. I kent that she had nae soul."

After a time I remarked: "And so, Dauvit, you are a bachelor because
you were a poet!"

He busied himself with the paper sole.

"Maggie married Bob Wilson the farmer o' East Mains. Aye, and the
marriage turned oot a happy one, for Bob never rose abune neeps and
tatties in his life." Dauvit sighed. "But I sometimes used to look at
the twa o' them when their bairns were roond their knees, and syne I
used to gie a big _Dawm!_ and ging back to my wee hoose and mak my ain
tea."

"It doesna pay to hae a soul, dominie," he added with a short laugh.

"Perhaps you could have given her a soul, Dauvit," I said.

He shook his head with decision.

"Na, dominie, a soul is something ye're born wi'; if it isna there it
canna be put there. You say that I'm a poet, and you may be richt;
there may be a wee bit o' the artist in me, and ye never heard o' an
artist that was happily married. Wumman and art are opposites, and a
man canna marry both."

"That is true, Dauvit. But art is the feminine side of a man's nature;
it is the woman in him . . . and the woman is superfluous to him, for
she becomes the rival of the