“Puir lad! I'll sune draw auchty punds fra' the sea for him, with my feyther's nets.”
As she disappeared, Mrs. Gatty appeared. “And this is the woman whose mind was not in her dirty business,” cried she. “Does not that open your eyes, Charles?”
“Ah! Charles,” added she, tenderly, “there's no friend like a mother.”
And off she carried the prize—his vanity had been mortified.
And so that happened to Christie Johnstone which has befallen many a woman—the greatness of her love made that love appear small to her lover.
“Ah! mother,” cried he, “I must live for you and my art; I am not so dear to her as I thought.”
And so, with a sad heart, he turned away from her; while she, with a light heart, darted away to think and act for him.
CHAPTER XII.
IT was some two hours after this that a gentleman, plainly dressed, but whose clothes seemed a part of himself (whereas mine I have observed hang upon me; and the Rev. Josiah Splitall's stick to him)—glided into the painter's room, with an inquiry whether he had not a picture or two disposable.