“They must trade, then, I suppose. And, goodness me! what does Roland know about trading? Nothing. He talks of taking out tools and frying-pans.”
“Frying-pans!” repeated Hamish, struck with the item.
“I am sure he said frying-pans. Oh dear!” sobbed Lady Augusta, “what a relief it would be if folks never had any children; or if boys did not possess wills of their own! Hamish, you have never given sorrow to your mother! I feel that you have not!”
Hamish smiled at her. “Now you know, Lady Augusta, that your children are your dearest treasures,” cried he, soothingly. “You would be the most unhappy woman living if you had none.”
“Ah! you can’t judge, Mr. Hamish Channing. You have no children of your own.”
“No,” said Hamish, laughing, “but my turn may come some day. Dear Lady Augusta, if Roland has his faults, he has his good qualities. Look on the bright side of things. Look forward with hope to the time that you shall see him home safe and well again. It will be sure to come.”
“You speak as if you believed it would.”
“Of course I do,” said Hamish. “And every one finds me a true prophet.”
They were then passing the Hazledon Charity. At the iron gates of the inclosure, talking to an old man, stood the Rev. William Yorke. “Roland left a message for him!” exclaimed Hamish, half mockingly, as his eyes fell upon the clergyman.
Lady Augusta, impulse all over, suddenly put her head out at the window and stopped the fly. William Yorke, looking surprised to see who were its inmates, advanced to the door. The lady’s tears flowed afresh.