"A cornet!" said I. "Whatever put that into her head?"
"I can't tell. She says the music professor at the convent can teach her to play it, and she thinks if she learned she might be able to lead the singing in a church with one."
"Perhaps somebody played the cornet in that concert company she was with."
"Na, na. It's nearer hame than that," mother struck in. "She has a notion o' ane o' thae cratur's 'at pl'y at the Opera Hoose. I hae seen her gang by the window wi' him, an' spiered at Watty wha he was."
"I don't like Wat's telling tales of Mary."
"He dinna, Davvit, till I pit it tae him. He canna bear the tawpie, and doesna like to hae her p'inted oot as his sister. A body canna blame the laddie. It's a heap better than his fa'in' in luv wi' her."
"Perhaps it is," groaned Isabel.
When mother had gone to bed my wife said:
"Mrs. Wade has been here to-day to ask Watty and Mary to a young people's dance on Friday night."
"What did you say?"