“An’rew,” he said—and found the mother-tongue here fittest—“I’m thinkin’ ye maun be growin’ some short o’ siller i’ this time o’ warklessness!”
“’Deed, I wadna won’er!” answered Andrew. “Doory says naething aboot sic triffles!”
“Weel,” rejoined Donal, “I thank God I hae some i’ the ill pickle o’ no bein’ wantit, an’ sae in danger o’ cankerin’; an’ ’atween brithers there sudna be twa purses!”
“Ye hae yer ain fowk to luik efter, sir!” said Andrew.
“They’re weel luikit efter—better nor ever they war i’ their lives; they’re as weel aff as I am mysel’ up i’ yon gran’ castel. They hae a freen’ wha but for them wad ill hae lived to be the great man he is the noo; an’ there’s naething ower muckle for him to du for them; sae my siller ’s my ain, an’ yours, An’rew, an’ Doory’s!”
The old man put him through a catechism as to his ways and means and prospects, and finding that Donal believed as firmly as himself in the care of the Master, and was convinced there was nothing that Master would rather see him do with his money than help those who needed it, especially those who trusted in him, he yielded.
“It’s no, ye see,” said Donal, “that I hae ony doobt o’ the Lord providin’ gien I had failt, but he hauds the thing to my han’, jist as muckle as gien he said, ‘There’s for you, Donal!’ The fowk o’ this warl’ michtna appruv, but you an’ me kens better, An’rew. We ken there’s nae guid in siller but do the wull o’ the Lord wi’ ’t—an’ help to ane anither is his dear wull. It’s no ’at he’s short o’ siller himsel’, but he likes to gie anither a turn!”
“I’ll tak it,” said the old man.
“There’s what I hae,” returned Donal.
“Na, na; nane o’ that!” said Andrew. “Ye’re treatin’ me like a muckle, reivin’, sornin’ beggar—offerin’ me a’ that at ance! Whaur syne wad be the prolonged sweetness o’ haein’ ’t i’ portions frae yer han’, as frae the neb o’ an angel-corbie sent frae verra hame wi’ yer denner!”—Here a glimmer of the old merriment shone through the worn look and pale eyes.—“Na, na, sir,” he went on; “jist talk the thing ower wi’ Doory, an’ lat her hae what she wants an’ nae mair. She wudna like it. Wha kens what may cam i’ the meantime—Deith himsel’, maybe! Or see—gie Doory a five shillins, an’ whan that’s dune she can lat ye ken!”