“And you, Dolly; what do you say to it?”
“I say to it what I have often said to a difficulty, what the old Scotch adage says of 'the stout heart to the stey brae.'”
“And you might have found more comforting words, lassie,—how the winds can be tempered to the shorn lamb,” said the old lady, almost rebukefully; and Dolly drooped her head in silence.
“I think it's a bad scheme,” said Tony, boldly, and as though not hearing his mother's remark. “For a man at the doctor's age to go to the other end of the globe, to live in a new land, and make new friendships at his time of life, is, I 'm sure, a mistake.”
“That supposes that we have a choice; but my father thinks we have no choice.”
“I cannot see that. I cannot see that what a man has borne for five-and-thirty or forty years—he has been that long at the Burnside—I believe he can endure still longer. I must have a talk with him myself over it.” And unconsciously—quite unconsciously—Tony uttered the last words with a high-sounding importance, so certain is it that in a man's worldly wealth there is a store of self-confidence that no mere qualities of head or heart can ever supply; and Dolly almost smiled at the assured tone and the confident manner of her former playfellow.
“My father will be glad to see you, Tony,—he wants to hear all about your campaigns; he was trying two nights ago to follow you on the map, but it was such a bad one he had to give up the attempt.”
“I'll give you mine,” cried the old lady,—“the map Tony brought over to myself. I 'll no just give it, but I 'll lend it to you; and there's a cross wherever there was a battle, and a red cross wherever Tony was wounded.”
“Pooh, pooh, mother! don't worry Dolly about these things; she 'd rather hear of pleasanter themes than battles and battle-fields. And here is one already,—Jeanie says, 'dinner'.”
“Where did you find your sprig of myrtle at this time?” asked Dolly, as Tony led her in to dinner.