"'Cause you wouldn't ha' been my gran'father then," said Ailie. "An' mother 'd ha' come, an' found nobody waitin' for her. Will she go to the old place first, gran'father, down in the cellar?"
"Maybe not. More like she'd know well enough ye couldn't have lived on alone, an' she'd ask what's become of ye, an' the neighbours 'd tell, 'Up with old Job Kippis,' an' she'd come an' tap an' walk in. Sure isn't that a noise outside now?"
Ailie sprang to open it, but a rush of cold air was all that entered, and she shut it again.
"'Tisn't nobody, gran'father. I wonders when she'll come."
"What'll I tell ye, to make the time go faster?" asked Job. "I'll have to stop work soon; my old eyes don't stand it by this light, as if they was young."
"Tell us about when you used to wear a coat all o' scarlet," said Ailie. "Was it ever so bright a red, gran'father?"
"That it was, deary, just this colour."
"An' did ye like wearing it?" asked Ailie.
"Just think I did!" said old Job emphatically. "Didn't I march along wi' my comrades, as proud as proud could be, an' the band a-playin' away in front."
"I'd like to hear it," said Ailie. "And how did ye get hurt, gran'father."