"Oh, shut up and go away," said Herries, disgusted with the old scamp, "and don't come near us oftener than you can help."
"And this," said Mr. Gowrie, lifting his eyes to the cloudless sky, "is gratitude."
"Gratitude be hanged, I owe you none."
"Dinna talk o' hanging, laddie, when ye think that puir Pope's fate micht hae been yours. Ye owe me a' theengs, I'm theenking. What were ye but a Jonah when I took peety on ye at the 'Marsh Inn'? I helped ye with counsel, I cheered yer lonely path, and gied tae ye ma ain bairn, the pride and glory of my existeence."
Herries stared at Mr. Gowrie thus praising himself, then taking Elspeth's arm within his own, calmly walked away. "Dear," he said when they entered the house, "when your father goes, we'll forget all the past."
"I never wish to see him again," shuddered the girl, "and oh, Angus, to think I should have such a father," she let fall a tear.
Herries kissed it away.
"There! There! We won't think any more of him or of our troubles. All's well that end's well. You and I are no longer Mr. and Mrs. Jonah."
"What are we then?" asked Elspeth smiling through her tears.
"Darby and Joan," and then they sat down happy at last. And the sage, the wise man, who had steered them,--in his own opinion,--through all their troubles, sat on the terrace lamenting the ingratitude of his children.