It was Lord Meikleham. Malcolm was not the only one who knew
him: Lizzy Findlay, only daughter of the Partan, and the prettiest
girl in the company, blushed crimson: she had danced with him
at Lossie House, and he had said things to her, by way of polite
attention, which he would never have said had she been of his own
rank. He would have lounged past, with a careless glance, but the
procession halted by one consent, and the bride, taking a bottle
and glass which her brother carried, proceeded to pour out a bumper
of whisky, while the groomsman addressed Lord Meikleham.
"Ye 're the bride's first fut, sir," he said.
"What do you mean by that?" asked Lord Meikleham.
"Here's the bride, sir: she'll tell ye."
Lord Meikleham lifted his hat.
"Allow me to congratulate you," he said.
"Ye 're my first fut," returned the bride eagerly yet modestly, as
she held out to him the glass of whisky.
"This is to console me for not being in the bridegroom's place,
I presume; but notwithstanding my jealousy, I drink to the health
of both," said the young nobleman, and tossed off the liquor.--
"Would you mind explaining to me what you mean by this ceremony?"
he added, to cover a slight choking caused by the strength of the
dram.
"It's for luck, sir," answered Joseph Mair. "A first fut wha wadna
bring ill luck upon a new merried couple, maun aye du as ye hae
dune this meenute--tak a dram frae the bride."
"Is that the sole privilege connected with my good fortune?" said
Lord Meikleham.
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