more irritable than ever, and when his wife asked,
in her cheery way:

"What ails ye, Davie? Prithee, why sae doure, gude man?" he answered,
fretfully:

"Whisht, woman, and dinna fash me wi' questions."

But one there was whose presence and whose playful ways never seemed to
vex him, and that was his pet bairn, Nannie, his _wee lammie_, as he
often called her.

Nannie had been well taught in books, as the Scottish peasantry, unlike
the same class in Ireland, usually are. She was regularly seen in her
place at kirk, and knew the Assembly's Catechism by heart. She could
repeat whole chapters from the Bible, and, better still, had ever
ordered her simple life according to its precepts. In addition to all
these merits, she had a sweet, innocent face, a guileless, loving
heart, and was named by the youth of the neighborhood the Bonnie
Shepherdess.

It is needless to say that Nannie had many admirers. Among others, Andy
Ferguson had not failed to notice her beauty and winning ways.

He had sometimes given her a bunch of flowers, or assisted her in
finding a stray lamb, attentions which she had received with sweetness
and modesty, as she would have accepted the same from any other of the
shepherd lads. But of love he never spoke or hinted, until one summer
evening he joined her as she was driving home her sheep to the fold.

After addressing to her all the pretty, flattering things, which, I am
told, are common on such occasions, he plainly asked her to be his
wife.

"I'm but a wee lassie, ower young to think o' wedding this mony a day,"
she replied.

"And so ye might be, gin I were a feckless laddie, like Rob Ainslee, or
Tam o' the Glen; but I hae riches, ye ken. Ye'll never need to fash
yoursel' wi' wark, but just sing like the lane-rock, fra morn till
e'en."

"Little care I for your riches," said Nannie, who, for reasons of her
own, was vexed at this allusion to Rob Ainslee. "Does na the Scripture
say a gude name is better to be chosen than gold?"

"And wha says aught against my gude name?" exclaimed he, with lowering
brow.

"Andy Ferguson," said Nannie, pausing and looking him in the face, "it
grieves me to gi' you or ony creature pain; but ye maun speak to me nae
mair o' love or marriage--no, never. Ye maun gang your ain gait an'
leave me to gae mine. As to your gude name, does na everybody ken--an'
sorry I am to say it--where your evenings are spent, and what sort o'
company ye keep?"

At this Andy lau