“But I’m very—very grateful!” sobbed Jane, “for the poor child seems all one has to live for now!”
“All, lassie?” said McCray, dryly.
“Well, no; not all,” said Jane. “But I’m not worthy of you, and I never ought to have made you the promise I did, for I can’t love you as much as you ought to be loved.”
“Hoot, lassie!” cried McCray, kneeling by her side, and drawing her to him, “gin ye try like that, I’m quite satisfied, for what more need a man wush for, than for his couthie wee bodie to try and love him with all her heart?”
Mr Chunt’s Toast.
Mr Chunt presided over a good many discussions in his parlour, where farmer and tradesman met to talk over the course of events during the first few weeks. The subject of Lady Gernon’s disappearance was tabooed by general consent. It was not the first event of the kind that had happened through badly-assorted marriages, and wouldn’t be the last, said the baker, sententiously; and then it was acknowledged by general consent that money didn’t make happiness, and that there was a deal of wickedness in this world.
Upon another night Mr Chunt took to bewailing in public the injury done to his trade, by the shutting up of the Castle.
“Looks a reg’lar devastation, gentlemen,” he said; “things all in holland, shutters closed, stables locked up, and all just as if it didn’t belong to nobody.”
“Oh, Sir Murray will be back one of these days,” said a small farmer, cheerfully, “and then trade will brighten up again; meanwhile, you must be contented with our custom, Chunt. He’ll tire of foreign parts, you’ll see.”