“I believe ye!” she said quaintly.
“But it’s the truth—an’ I’ll never forget it.”
“A guid memory’s a gran’ thing! An’ when dae ye start wi’ yer uncle?”
“Monday week.”
“That’s quick work. Ye’ve beat me a’ to sticks. Dinna get swelled heid!”
“Christina, I wish ye wudna——”
“I canna help it. It’s the theatre, I suppose. Oh, I near forgot to tell ye, yer uncle was in when we got hame frae the theatre. I hadna time to speak to him, for I had to run back to the shop. Hadna even time to change ma dress. I think yer uncle whiles gets tired o’ bein’ a rich man an’ livin’ in a swell house. Maybe you’ll feel that way some day.”
He let her run on, now and then glancing wistfully at her pretty, animated face. The happiness, the triumph, he had anticipated were not his. But all the more they were worth working for.
So they came to the place where she lived.
“Come up,” she said easily; “I tell’t auntie I wud maybe bring ye up for supper.”