“Oh! about Jock,” cried Polly, drawing a breath full of relief. “I hope he has got off.”
“Well, no, my lass, he hasn’t, and I’m sorry and I’m not sorry, if thou canst understand that. I’m sorry Jock is to be punished, and I’m not sorry if it will do him good. Arn’t you ashamed of having a husband with such a bad brother?”
“Ashamed! Oh, Tom!” she cried, throwing her arms about his neck.
“Well, if you are not, I am,” said Tom, sadly; “and I can’t help thinking that if old Humphrey Bone had done his duty better by us, Jock would have turned out a different man.”
“But tell me, Tom, are they going to do anything dreadful to him?”
“Three months on bread and water, my lass,” said Tom Morrison,—“bread of repentance and water of repentance; and I hope they’ll do him good, but I’m afraid when he comes out he’ll be after the hares and pheasants again, and I’m always in a fret lest he should get into a fight with the keepers. But there, my lass, I can’t help it. I’d give him a share of the business if he’d take to it, but he wean’t. I shan’t fret, and if people like to look down on me about it, they may.”
“But they don’t, Tom, dear,” cried Polly, with her face all in dimples, the great trouble of her life forgotten for the time. “I’ve got such a surprise for you.”
“Surprise for me, lass? What is it? A custard for tea?”
“No, no; what a boy you are to eat!” cried Polly, merrily.
“Just you come and smell sawdust all day, and see if you don’t eat,” cried Tom. “Here, what is it?”