“Laddy!” said Christie.
“This is a new step on the downward path,” said the poor painter.
“Is it no an orrder to paint the young prence?” said Christie, faintly.
“No!” almost shrieked the victim. “It's a writ! I owe a lot of money.
“Oh, Chairles!”
“See! I borrowed sixty pounds six months ago of a friend, so now I owe eighty!”
“All right!” giggled the unfriendly visitor at the door, whose departure had been more or less fictitious.
Christie, by an impulse, not justifiable, but natural, drew her oyster-knife out, and this time the man really went away.
“Hairtless mon!” cried she, “could he no do his am dirrty work, and no gar me gie the puir lad th' action, and he likeit me sae weel!” and she began to whimper.
“And love you more now,” said he; “don't you cry, dear, to add to my vexation.”