They sat each at an extreme end of the horsehair sofa. They had been courting now for something like two years, but the wide gap between had always been respectfully preserved.
"A penny for your thochts, Sandy," murmured Maggie, after a silence of an hour and a half.
"Weel," replied Sandy slowly, with surprising boldness, "tae tell ye the truth, I was jist thinkin' how fine it wad be if ye were tae gie me a wee bit kissie."
"I've nae objection," simpered Maggie, slithering over, and kissed him plumply on the tip of his left ear.
Sandy relapsed into a brown study once more, and the clock ticked twenty-seven minutes.
"An' what are ye thinkin' about noo—anither, eh?"
"Nae, nae, lassie; it's mair serious the noo."
"Is it, laddie?" asked Maggie softly. Her heart was going pit-a-pat with expectation. "An' what micht it be?"
"I was jist thinkin'," answered Sandy, "that it was aboot time ye were paying me that penny!"
The coward calls himself cautious, the miser thrifty.—Syrus.
There are but two ways of paying debt: increase of industry in raising income, increase of thrift in laying out.—Carlyle.
A Scotchman was questioned by a friend:
"Mac, I hear ye have fallen in love wi' bonny Kate McAllister."
"Weel, Sanders," Mac replied, "I was near—veera near—doin' it, but the bit lassy had nae siller, so I said to meaself, 'Mac, be a mon.' And I was a mon, and noo I jist pass her by."
The thrifty housewife regarded her dying husband with stern disapproval as he moaned and tossed restlessly from side to side.
"William Henry," she rebuked him, "you jest needn't kick and squirm so, and wear them best sheets all out, even if you be a-dyin'.''