brewed it, it tastes well
after my long walk! Wat Webster, wilt thou pledge me, man--

"'And let us all, my friends, be merry,
And set nocht by this world a cherry;
Now while there is good wyne to sell,
He that does on dry bread worry,
I gif him to the devil of hell.'"

And he trowled the flask upon the table while he sung, as a kind of bass
chorus to his song.

"There's for thee, Wat!" continued he, filling out a flask.

Wat kept his hand upon the holy book.

"Wilt thou, honest John Wilson, pledge thy old friend in this red liquor,
which formerly claimed so strong an acquaintanceship with the secret power
of the topers' hearts of merry Christ's Kirk?"

"For the luve o' heaven," whispered Jenny, as she clung closer to him,
"touch it not!--it will scald yer liver like brimstone, and may, besides,
be the price o' yer soul's purchase."

John looked at the liquor, and would have spoken; but his heart failed him.

"Wilt thou, Meg Johnston, empty this flask to the health of thy old
friend?"

"Guid faith, I, lad," muttered Meg, safe as she thought within the walls of
her necromantic circumvallation--"I ken ye owre weel. Ye needna think to
cheat me. I'm no a spunk to be dipped in brimstone, and then set lowe to.
But [aside] how can he stand the look o' the haly rude! and the haly book?
The deevil o' sic a deevil I ever heard, saw, or read o'. Avaunt ye, avaunt
ye, in the name o the seven churches! The deil a bane ye'll get here--yere
owre weel kenned. Set aff in a flash o' yer ain fire to Falkland."

"Wilt thou, Christy Lowry, pledge thine old friend?" continued the
stranger, without noticing Meg's recommendation.

"In guid troth na," replied Christy, to whom the cross afforded some
confidence. "It's a' out, man--it's owre the hail town. There's nae use in
concealin't langer. Just put a spunk to the neck o't and set aff. Wae! wae!
[aside] but it's an awfu thing to look the enemy i' the very face, and
hauld converse wi' lips that mak nae gobs at cinders! Ave Maria! help
Christy Lowry in this her trial and temptation?"

"Come from thy langsettle, jolly Kate Webster," continued he of the red
cravat, "and let us, as thou wert wont to say, have a little laughing and
drinking deray in this last night of the old year. I see, by the very
mouths thou makest, thy throat is as dry as a dander, and, by and by, may
set fire to my red liquor. Ha! I love a jolly gossip for a tosspot; for she
gives more s