Jess & Co./Chapter 7

UT I can carry it easily," said Mrs. Houston, referring to the small order she had just given the grocer.

"Na, na," returned Mr. Ogilvy, firmly, "I'll send it wi' the utmaist pleesure. That laddie o' mines is jist eatin' his heid aff, as it were, for want o' somethin' to dae. Ye see," continued the grocer, who had been vainly longing all afternoon for some one to talk to—"ye see, Mistress Houston, it's no' as if it was the simmer, when things is kin' o' brisk—no' as brisk as they micht be—but jist kin' o' brisk an' the laddie's cairryin' messages near a' day to the veesitors an' whiles near rin aff his twa feet tryin' for to obleege folk that forgets what they're needin' till the last meenit, an' are ower prood to cairry a paircel unless maybe yin containin' jools or scent or some ither vanity. Deed, ay! It's fair monsterous the wey some folk come dancin' into the shop, jist as if their internal organs—excuse me mentionin' sic things, Mistress Houston—jist as if the organs I refer to had remindit them suddently—expectin' me to send proveesions to every pint o' the compass as quick as ye can say 'Jack Robison'!"

"It's a good thing you have a good temper, Mr. Ogilvy," Jess remarked, smiling, and preparing to depart.

"I doot ma temper's no' aye that guid. Some o' the messages is hardly worth cairryin', an' it's suffeecient to mak' an or'nar' buddy like masel' bile to be commandit, for example, to send tippence-worth o' bird-seed a mile alang the shore, wi'oot delay, to a leddy that gets next to naethin' frae me as a rule."

"What a sin!" exclaimed Mrs. Houston, sympathetically.

"'Deed, Mistress Houston, I whiles try to think of Job bein' a grocer; but, efter a', it's maybe jist as weel for him he wasna. I doot he wud ha'e fleed up as I did, though I tried no' to shew it, when a leddy cam' in yin mornin' in July an' ordered an unce o' pepper-corns to be sent hauf a mile in a hurry because her cook was waitin' on them, an' she wasna gaun stracht hame. She wasna a vera guid customer, but I tell't her as nice as possible I was rale sorry I had naebody to send wi' her esteemed order—I said 'esteemed' ablow ma breith, ye ken. But she turned on me as if she was a doochess an' me a bit o' dirt, an' speirt in an exceedin' offensive v'ice if I didna keep a boy. I was that angry I didna care if she never darkened ma door again, an' I tell't her I did keep a boy, but he was jist a human yin wi' twa airms an' twa legs, an' no' a new patent fleein'-machine fit to cover twa-three hunner mile an' 'oor an' deleever messages as shin as they was oot the customers' mooths. An' she smiled gey soor-like an' said I sud keep mair nor the yin boy. I was gaun to gi'e her a reply to that, but jist then the laddie cam' in; and thinkin' it better no' to create a scene, as it were, I sent him alang wi' the peppercorns."

"That was good of you, Mr. Ogilvy."

"Ay; an' I got a rich an' braw reward! She sent them back the next day, because they was black an' she wantit white. It's as true as I'm here, Mistress Houston!"

Jess tried not to laugh, and murmured something sympathetic. "Well, Mr. Ogilvy, I must be going. Thanks for sending the things—there's no hurry for them."

"I'll send them inside the 'oor. The laddie's at his tea the noo, but he'll no' be lang," said the grocer, who did not want her to go just yet. "Ye'll be gey prood o' David's new place," he remarked. "I never seen a finer jiner's-shop. I was through it wi' David the ither day, an' was tellin' him it was jist like a palace efter the auld place. My! it was unco clever o' ye to mind aboot the insurance, Mistress Houston," he went on with admiration in his voice. "David tell't me aboot it."

"Did he?" said Jess, looking and feeling shy.

"Ay; he tell't me. Ye're no' vexed at me kennin', are ye, Mistress Houston?"

"No, no. But there's no need to say anything about it to anybody else."

"I wudna dae that—nae fears! I'm as secret as a—a—tinned, tongue," returned the grocer, finding sudden inspiration on his counter. "I am that, Mistress Houston. An' I ken fine David tell't me aboot it in the fulness o' his hert, for he said, 'If it hadna been for ma wife, Ogilvy, I wud be a ruined man this day.' That was when he was lettin' me see the new premises, so to speak. An' he was tellin' me hoo dacent a' his big customers ha'e been in lettin' the jobs staun till he was in a poseetion for to attend to them; an' when I tell't him it was jist because they kent when they had a guid man, he turned on me gey quick, an' said, 'It's the wife that brocht a' the luck!' An' I believe he wasna faur wrang, Mistress Houston!"

"I must really go, Mr. Ogilvy," the young woman said, flushing.

"Ye'll be gaun to see yer aunt, maybe?" said the grocer, with exaggerated carelessness, while he toyed with his ham-knife.

"No. She went up to the town this morning."

"She gaed to the toon this mornin'! It's queer I didna see her gaun to the boat. But I mind noo that ma attention was occupied wi' pickin' oot a hauf-dizzen chippit eggs for Mistress Waddell—puir buddy—jist when the boat was comin' in to the pier. An' is yer aunt for bidin' lang in Glesca, Mistress Houston?"

"Oh no. She'll be home with the last boat to-night."

"Jist that. Ay. Mphm. The last boat the nicht. Ay," said the grocer, with nervous satisfaction, putting down the knife and absent-mindedly laying his hand on a bunch of sausages and then drawing it away with a start at the clammy contact.

"Well, good-bye, just now, Mr. Ogilvy," said Mrs. Houston, turning towards the door.

The grocer, however, seemed not to hear her, for, keeping his gaze fixed on the sausages, he continued:

"The last boat the nicht. Ay. Jist that. Eh—what was it I was gaun to say, noo?" He halted, scratching the tip of his nose in a thoughtful fashion, while Jess felt both irritated and amused. "What was it I was gaun to say?" he repeated. "I doot I'm lossin' ma mem'ry."

"Was it anything about Mrs. Wallace?" asked Jess, unable to resist putting the question.

"Weel," returned Mr. Ogilvy, who had now reached what might be described as a twittering condition—"weel, Mistress Houston, I—I wudna say it wasna. In fac', I micht venture to say it—it was aboot yer highly respectit aunt. Ay. I wud be tellin' ye an untruth if I said it wasna." Here he paused, transferred his gaze from the sausages to his boots, and, heaving a soft sigh, passed his hand across his forehead.

"Yes, Mr. Ogilvy," Mrs. Houston murmured, encouragingly.

"Whaur was I?" helplessly inquired the grocer. "Oh, ay. I was speakin' aboot yer aunt, as it were. Was I no'?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Houston again, beginning to wish she had not waited.

"I—I hope, Mistress Houston, ye ha'e nae objection to ma speakin' aboot yer highly respectit aunt."

"So long as you don't say nasty things about her," replied Jess, as lightly as possible.

"Aw, Mistress Houston!" exclaimed the grocer. "Ye ken fine I wudna dae that. The words wud choke me, jist as if they was fish-banes. Ay, wud they! I micht say I conseeder Mistress Wallace a—an exceedin' admire-able pairty. I dae that." Again he wiped his brow.

The young woman checked a smile, and looked out through the open door.

"An exceedin' admire-able pairty," Mr. Ogilvy repeated, almost to himself, and relapsed into silence.

"Did you want to give me some message for my aunt?" Jess inquired, at last. "I'll see her to-morrow morning. But she'll likely be coming into the shop on her way from the boat to-night."

"Na. She'll no' dae that. I ken she's no' needin' onythin'. She got extra proveesions yesterday, an' I was wunnerin' at the time what she wantit them for, no' bein' aware o' her premeditated jaunt to Glesca. Na; she'll no' be in here the nicht."

"Well, if you've any message, Mr. Ogilvy, I'll be glad to give it to her to-morrow."

"I'm shair I'm vera greatly obleeged to ye, Mistress Houston," said the grocer, moistening his lips and clutching gently at his apron. "Ye see—ye see, it's a maitter that I'm kin' o' sweirt to mention to her masel'! I've tried to mention it mair nor yinst, but ma stammerin' tongue wudna let me. So, if ye 'll be as kind as to—"

Rather alarmed, Jess interposed, saying—

"But, oh, Mr. Ogilvy, if it's anything particular, I really think you should say it yourself."

"I canna, I canna!" he asserted, gloomily. "But I'll tell ye aboot it, Mistress Houston, for I ken ye're rale discreet, an' then ye can decide if ye'll tell yer highly respectit aunt for me."

"No, no! You mustn't tell me, Mr. Ogilvy," cried Jess, flushing. "I'm sure it's none of my business."

"If ye please—"

"Oh no! I must go now. David will be wondering what's keeping me. I was to call at the shop for him. Good—"

"Bide a wee—bide a wee," he implored. "Ye see, it wasna till I got the quarter's accoont frae the merchant," he said, rapidly, "that I fun' oot I had been chairgin' her, for weeks an' weeks, a penny a pun ower muckle for her ham."

"Her what?"

"Her ham. She's the boy for ham, yer aunt! Michty me! What am I sayin'? I'm shair I didna mean onythin' disrespectfu'. I merely wantit to gar ye perceive that, conseederin' the quantity o' ham she conshumes, a penny a pun mak's a difference in time.... That's a bad hoast ye've gotten, Mistress Houston. I'll ha'e to gi'e ye a wheen jujubes."

"I'm all right now, thank you," said Jess, recovering herself. "Do you mean that you want me to explain to my aunt about the ham?"

"Jist that, if ye please."

"But surely you can tell her yourself. She won't be angry."

"Wull she no'? I doot it. I yinst made a mistak' in her pass-book—it was a wee blot that pit me wrang—I thocht it was a saxpence when I was addin' it up, an' it was jist a penny—an' I can tell ye she was gey pit oot, an' I felt gey sma'. I'm feart for neither man nor beast nor deevil, but I cudna thole her vails o' wrath, as it were. It was jist terrible!"

"Was she not joking? She's fond of her joke, you know."

"'Deed, ay; 'deed, ay. But I dinna think she was jokin' aboot the pass-book. Na! As shair's I'm here, I hadna the speerit o' a wulk when she was dune wi' me.... But—but, ye see, Mistress Houston, ma chief object o' askin' ye to—to break it gently, so to speak, is—is that I—I dinna want to—to feel like a wulk a second time. Na, it's no' exac'ly that, either," corrected Mr. Ogilvy, the beads breaking out on his forehead.

"I think I know what you mean."

"Dae ye?" he exclaimed, eagerly.

"You mean that you're afraid you might get angry yourself if my aunt said much, and perhaps quarrel with her. Is that it?"

"N—na. I wudna get angry.... Na. That's no' ma feelin', thenk ye kindly a' the same. Ma feelin' is somethin' mair—aw! hoo can I describe it? Eh—somethin' mair—mair saftlike." With this Mr. Ogilvy grew so red in the face that Jess knew her suspicions were only too well founded.

"I'll tell my aunt about the ham," she said, from the doorway. "And I'm sure you don't need to bother about that, Mr. Ogilvy."

"Thenk ye, thenk ye," he murmured. "Wud ye mention, think ye, that ma feelin' is—a—kin' o' saftlike?"

But with a hasty good-bye Jess fled, and it cannot be definitely stated that she heard his last sentence.

"Samuel Ogilvy," said the grocer bitterly, to himself, "there's mair nor yer feelin' saftlike!"

Mrs. Houston pushed open the door of the workshop and entered with the regretful feeling of having neglected her husband in a most unwifelike fashion.

"It's yersel'!" cried the joiner, cheerfully, sliding off a bench upon which lay an unfinished panel, and folding up the last number of The Gardener's Chronicle.

"I'm sorry I've kept you waiting, Davie," she said, nodding and smiling to old Angus, who, after respectfully returning the salutation, seized a large plane and proceeded to trim a piece of board that lay handy, as if he had been engaged upon it all afternoon.

"Och, ye didna keep me waitin'," replied David, as he placed the paper in his pocket. "I hope ye didna hurry for me, Jess."

"Of course I didn't hurry," she returned, naturally a little irritated. "But I'm later than I said I would be."

"Are ye? 'Deed, I thocht it was an 'oor earlier, onywey," said David, easily, consulting his old silver watch. "But I'm ready for ye," he added, flinging his apron on the bench and taking his jacket from a peg in the wall.

"There's no hurry," said Jess, the least thing coldly. "I can wait till you finish the work you were at when I came in."

"Oh, I was jist takin' a keek at the Chronicle. There's a fine bit o' writin' aboot—"

"What's that under your apron, David?"

"That? Oh, there's nae hurry for that. It 'll dae fine the morn."

"But you're going to Mr. Donaldson's, at Corriemore, to-morrow."

"So I am. Weel, it 'll dae fine the next day. We'll awa' name noo."

"How long would it take you to finish that bit?" she asked, indicating the panel.

"No' abin ten meenits."

"Well, do it now, David, and I'll wait."

"Na, na. I'm wantin' ma tea, an' so are you, lass. I'll leave word for Binnie to feenish it first thing i' the mornin'." He was on the point of telling old Angus to tell Donald Binnie, when Mrs. Houston prevented him.

"Do it yourself, David," she said, firmly. "What's the use of leaving over a ten minutes' job?"

"Weel," he said, good-naturedly, hanging up his coat and throwing aside the apron, "when I come to think o' 't, I believe ye're richt—richt as usual." And smiling at his wife, who had seated herself on a stool not far from him, he selected a sheet of sand-paper and fell to work.

Old Angus, with an effort that racked his frame, succeeded in suppressing a chuckle, and, winking violently, went on with his planing, muttering to himself, "She kens the wey! She kens the wey!" over and over again.

Within the time he mentioned, David blew the last cloud of soft dust from the panel, and smiled again at his wife, receiving a smile in response.

"Angus," he called, as he donned his jacket, "ye can gang noo. What's that ye're workin' at?"

The old man laid down his tool, stared for twenty seconds at his handiwork, and then looked over at his employer. "I—I doot I've dune the—the wrang thing," he stammered, holding up the board.

Houston's face clouded, and his lips tightened for an instant. "Man, ye sudna ha'e—" he began.

"Davie," whispered Jess, "don't say anything." She rose and crossed the floor to where Angus was standing, gazing piteously at the fine wood he had spoiled, for his sight was failing him and he would not have spectacles. "Angus," she said, brightly, "that's just what I'm wanting for a shelf in the kitchen. Just the very thing.... Isn't it, Davie?" she asked, looking round at her husband.

"But the wudd's faur ower guid for a—" David was trying to say, when he was checked by a second, "Isn't it, Davie?"

"Ay," he replied, lamely. Then perceiving what was required of him, he called to the old man: "Ay, Angus; it's jist what Mistress Houston was wantin'. It's maybe a wee thing to the lang side, but ye can tak' twa-three inches aff it the morn."

"But I've dune the wrang thing," murmured Angus, dejectedly.

"I'm glad you have, Angus," said Mrs. Houston, cheerily, "because now I'll get my shelf sooner than I expected. Now, away and get your tea."

The old man, with a low-spoken good-night, left the workshop, but ere he closed the door behind him he looked back at Jess with a benediction in his eyes, and all the way home he kept saying to himself, "She kens the wey—she kens the wey."

With her hand, Jess was brushing some powdery wood from David's waistcoat when he softly exclaimed, and not without difficulty:

"Ye're an awfu' nice wumman, Jess!"

"I like to see you tidy, Davie."

"I didna mean that. I meant the wey ye saved Angus, for I was gey wild at him for spilin' that bit wudd. If ye hadna been here, I doot I wud ha'e lost ma temper. The wudd was a spaycial bit for young Maister Cochrane, him that's aye workin' at models—an' I'll ha'e to send to the toon to replace it."

"I'm sorry for that, Davie."

"Weel, weel, dearie, I'm gled ye kep' me frae lossin' ma temper. But whiles I ainna ken what to dae wi' Angus. He's been nae use since the fire, an' he's been less since his sister dee'd. I wantit to gi'e him a kin' o' pension, as ye ken, Jess, but I seen he wud be offendit. He said he wud never eat the breid o' idleness as lang as he was leevin'—puir man!—an' I hadna the hert to pit him awa'."

"But he was working when I came in," said Jess, flicking some specks of dust from her husband's jacket collar.

"Aw, he aye stairts to work when you or yer aunt comes into the shop—for, ye see, he winna let ye think he's dune—but he usually dis the wrang thing, an'—an' it's gey provokin' whiles."

"So it is, Davie. But can't you give him his own work to do?"

"Ay. But he forgets an' turns sleepy-like, an' forbye that, he disna see vera weel. We maun jist thole wi' his weys, an' dae the best we can for him, an' I maun keep ma temper wi' him, for, to tell ye the truth, ma dear, I wudna like to see the shop wantin' him. Weel, we'll gang noo."

"But," said Jess, when they had started on the way home, "how would it do to put him to work in the garden?" She half smiled, unable to keep from thinking that the suggestion was a brilliant one.

"Na, na!" came the decided reply. "The gairden's been neglectit enough this while back wi'oot pittin' a man on to it that wud spile it—ruin it—a'thegither. I suppose ye was jist jokin', Jess?"

"Well, perhaps I was," she replied, trying not to look disappointed.

"I thocht that. For if Angus had been ony guid at the gairaenin' I wud ha'e had him at it lang syne. It's a perfec' he'rt-break to think o' the state the place has been in since the spring."

"Never mind, Davie. You had a hard fight, and you got the best of it, and everybody's proud of you," said his wife, warmly. "I know how hard it has been for you."

"Tits! It wasna as bad as a' that. An' I'm shair I wud never ha'e been whaur I am if it hadna been for yersel', ma dear. It's a peety aboot the gairden, but I'd shinner see it like a midden plantit wi' auld tin cans an' broken gless nor let Angus try his haun at it. Guidsake, Jess, the puir buddy disna ken the difference at ween a dahlia an' a dandilion, an' I doot if he wud ken a crocus-bulb f rae a Spanish ingin! Ye see, he never had ony fancy for gairdenin'."

"I've heard him talking about your flowers," Jess remarked.

"Oh, ay, he'll talk aboot ony thin' he thinks 'll please ye, lass. But maybe he was wrang when he thocht talkin' aboot ma flooers wud please ye," said David, with a sly glance at his wife.

"Davie!" she cried, reproachfully.

"D'ye ken, I whiles think ye like the gairden better the wey it is noo nor the wey it was a twal'month syne. Eh, Jess?"

"Now you're havering!"

"But ye like me better in the shop or at a job nor in the gairden," he persisted.

"I like you anywhere, lad," she replied, sweetly but evasively.

"Hoo d'ye mean?"

"Oh, I'm not going to explain—if you can't understand. See! there's Mr. Ogilvy waving to you."

They returned the salute of the grocer, who stood in his door. "My! but they're the twa happy yins!" he sighed, as he watched them along the road.

"Poor Mr. Ogilvy," murmured Mrs. Houston, gently.

"What's wrang wi' him?" asked her husband.

"I doubt he's very bad, Davie," she answered, smiling faintly. "He wants to marry Aunt Wallace."

"Has he no' gotten ower that yet? I thocht her tongue had cured him lang syne."

"I'm afraid it hasn't—but you're not to speak about aunt like that."

"Och, we a' ken she's got a gey shairp tongue, Jess. I'm no' sayin' onythin' aboot her he'rt, mind!" he added, seriously. Then he laughed, and inquired, "D'ye ken why he wants to mairry yer aunt, ma dear?"

"He's in love with her, of course."

"That's a sma' bit o' the reason. He wants to mairry her to get bein' yer uncle! Ay, that's it!" At which statement David looked pleased with himself.

"Don't be stupid!" retorted Mrs. Houston, with affected sternness.

"It's a fac', though. He's got an awfu' high opeenion o' yersel'. D'ye ken what he said to me the ither day?"

"No; and I don't want to know."

"He said—"

"Be quiet!"

"Aweel, I'll tell ye anither time when ye're no' expectin' it," said David, smiling teasingly. "But hoo d'ye think he's gettin' on wi' his coortin'?"

Jess shook her head. "He doesn't seem extra happy just now."

"Maybe he's worrit aboot trade."

"He doesn't complain about trade now so much as he used to."

"That's a bad sign," observed David, thoughtfully.

"At least, he complains more about his customers."

"Mphm. He'll be turnin' his thochts frae business to—to—" The joiner stuck for want of a word to express himself. "But it's a bad sign, onywey," he continued. "I mind when I used to turn frae ma work on accoont o' yersel', Jess."

"Do you blame it all on me?" she asked, with the least trace of irony in her tone.

"Na," he replied, soberly. "I blame it on masel'. If I had peyed mair attention to ma work, ye wud ha'e been better aff the day."

"Whisht, lad!" she said, in soft surprise.

"An" maybe the gairdenin' has been to blame, tae," he went on. "I've thocht that whiles lately. But ye ken, Jess, it's a great temptation to me."

"But, Davie, you've hardly touched the garden since the spring—since the fire," she said, gently.

David sighed. "Maybe it's jist as weel. Ma trade's the jinerin', an' I maun stick to it.... An' it's no' a bad trade, an' things are gaun weel, an' I'm no' complainin'," he added, more cheerfully.

"But you'll get time for your gardening soon again, Davie," she said.

"We'll see, we'll see."

"Oh, but, Davie—" she began, and stopped, lest she should say too much.

Suddenly he turned towards her. "Ye're the best wife a man ever had, an' I envy naebody," he exclaimed. "The fire was maybe a guid thing. It was a guid thing because o' yersel', ma dear."

"But, Davie," she said, breaking a long silence, "supposing the shop hadn't been insured—"

"I wud ha'e been dune for. Fine I ken that!"

"But wait a minute. Supposing the shop hadn't been insured, and supposing you hadn't been married—what would you have done?"

"That's a question," he said, smiling.

"Would you have become a gardener?"

"Ye mean a gairdener to some gentlemen?" he said, after a pause.

"Yes—I suppose so."

"Na!" he replied, firmly.

"Wouldn't you?" she cried, greatly surprised. "Why?"

"Weel, Jess, if I was to be a gairdener, I wud want ma ain gairden. D'ye see?"

She nodded gravely. "I see, Davie."

"I wud like a place like Davison's nursery."

"I know," she murmured. "I would like that, too."

"Wud ye, lass?" he cried. "Weel, it's jist like ye to sympathize wi' yer man even in his daftlike dreams. But here we are, an' I'm shair ye're wearyin' for yer tea."

He pushed open the gate of Hazel Cottage, and they went up the path together, in the shine of the autumn sunset.

"Davie," she said, earnestly, "you're not to forget our garden altogether."

"Weel, to tell ye the truth," he returned, glancing about him, "I think I'll ha'e an 'oor at it the morn, afore I gang to Corriemore."

And Jess smiled quite gladly.

The last steamer was due at Kinlochan pier about seven o'clock, and when Mr. Ogilvy sighted her lights on the far side of the loch, he proceeded to behave in a somewhat extraordinary fashion. His message-boy having gone for the night, the grocer was alone in his shop, yet he looked about him as though he feared a watch upon his movements. Satisfied at last that he was unobserved, he opened his till and took out a penny, muttering to himself:

"Ye're a muckle eediot, Samuel Ogilvy."

He regarded the coin for nearly a minute, replaced it in the till and took out half a crown.

"It's mair in keepin' wi' the operation," was his inward observation.

Just then a customer came in, but, fortunately, did not wait long, although after her departure the grocer could not remember where he had laid the half-crown.

"I've nae time to luk fur it the noo," he thought, glancing through the window at the approaching lights of the steamer.

Having picked a florin from the till, he gazed at it earnestly and then spun it into the air. As it fell he grabbed at it but missed it, and it struck the floor and rolled under the counter.

"Tits!" he exclaimed. "I'll get it the morn."

He spun a second florin, and this time caught it between his palms.

"It's heids!" he murmured, when he had lifted, his right hand. "I've to gang an' meet her. Oh, me!"

Five minutes later, as the steamer reached the pier, Mr. Ogilvy, having already put up the shutters, locked the door of his shop—at least an hour before the usual time—and hastened along the road in the direction of Mrs. Wallace's abode.

On reaching her cottage, he turned and walked slowly back towards the pier, which the steamer had now left.

"She's a lang time comin'," he said, to himself. "Maybe she's no' comin' the nicht, efter a'. Oh, me! Samuel Ogilvy, ye're jist a nondescript nincompoop!"

He retraced his steps to the cottage, and again set out towards the pier. Several people from the steamer passed him, while he pretended to be absorbed by the view over the sea-wall.

But at last the looked-for figure came dimly in view, and thereupon Mr. Ogilvy lost his head.

"Oh, I hope she'll no' see me!" he groaned, and gazed steadily across the loch.

Mrs. Wallace came through the dusk, and halted behind him. "Is that you, Maister Ogilvy?" she said, and there was something in her voice that added to the grocer's discomfort. "Is that you, Maister Ogilvy?" she repeated, before he nerved himself to turn and face her.

"Ay, it's jist me, Mistress Wallace.... It—it's a fine nicht."

"It is a fine nicht," she replied; "a fine nicht fur plunkin' the shop, Maister Ogilvy! Whit d'ye mean shtittin' yer shop afore the time?"

"Was ye wantin' somethin'?" he stammered.

"Ay, wis I! An' when I cam' aff the boat an' gaed to the shop, here the door was shut, an' the pairty that sud ha'e kep' it open gallivantin' aboot like a young yin!"

"Aw, mistress—"

"Ay; ye're a fine yin to keep a shop! An' me yer best customer!" cried Mrs. Wallace. "But dinna let me keep ye frae yer app'intment," she added, with an unkind chuckle.

"I—I've nae app'intment, Mistress Wallace," he returned, desperately. "I jist cam' oot to—to—"

"Oh, I'm no' wantin' to ken her name. We'll be hearin' it in the kirk shin, nae doot."

"Ye maun ha'e yer joke, Mistress Wallace," said Mr. Ogilvy, with a very feeble grin.

"Ay, jist as you maun ha'e yer Jenny," retorted his "best customer," with another chuckle.

The poor grocer stood speechless.

"Weel," said Mrs. Wallace, at last, and her voice was kindly, "I didna gang to the shop the nicht to buy—but to pey. I wantit to gi'e ye back the siller ye lent me a while syne. It sud ha'e been in yer pooch afore this, an' I'm vexed it wisna. But there it is, an' thenk ye fur the len' o' 't."

Taking a packet from her underskirt pocket, Mrs. Wallace handed it to Mr. Ogilvy.

"Are ye shair ye're no' needin' it?" he asked, awkwardly.

"Na, na, man. I'm no' needin' it, and I'm glad ye've gotten yer ain again. I'm no' guid at thenkin' folk or peyin' compliments, but I tell ye I'm obleeged to ye fur yer help. Ye can coont it when ye get name, an' if ye fin' a bawbee ower mony ye can keep it—or gi'e it to yer Jenny! Ha! ha! Guid-nicht, Maister Ogilvy. I'm wantin' ma tea."

"Mistress Wallace! Mistress Wallace!" he exclaimed, as she moved forward.

"Weel, Maister Ogilvy?"

"I—I was jist wantin' to say that—that I'm aye ready an' willin' to dae onythin' to serve you or yours, as it were."

"I believe ye, Maister Ogilvy," she returned. "An' I'll no' furget whit ye've dune. An'—weel, guid-nicht again, Maister Ogilvy."

The grocer wanted to accompany her, but he lacked the courage, and so he turned and went slowly in the other direction. "Samuel Ogilvy!" he addressed himself, moodily, "ye're a peetifu' spectacle!"