“Madam!” said he.
She lifted up her head.
“It is Christie Johnstone. I'm so glad; that is, I'm sorry you are crying, but I'm glad I shall have the pleasure of relieving you;” and his lordship began to feel for a check-book.
“And div ye really think siller's a cure for every grief!” said Christie, bitterly.
“I don't know,” said his lordship; “it has cured them all as yet.”
“It will na cure me, then!” and she covered her head with her apron again.
“I am very sorry,” said he; “tell me” (whispering), “what is it? poor little Christie!”
“Dinna speak to me; I think shame; ask Jean. Oh, Richard, I'll no be lang in this warld!!!”
“Ah!” said he, “I know too well what it is now; I know, by sad experience. But, Christie, money will cure it in your case, and it shall, too; only, instead of five pounds, we must put a thousand pounds or two to your banker's account, and then they will all see your beauty, and run after you.”
“How daur ye even to me that I'm seekin a lad?” cried she, rising from her stool; “I would na care suppose there was na a lad in Britain.” And off she flounced.