“You see,” said Uncle Sandy—with elaborate skill, as he thought, good simple heart, “they would have nane but the very finest, it being for you, Miss Jean, and so I cannot undertake to say it was cheap—when ye get the best of anything, it’s seldom to call cheap.”
“Ye’re a grand man to learn me, Sandy Muir,” said Miss Jean, with a laugh of derision. “Me, that have been a careful woman a’ my days, never gieing a penny mair for onything than what it was worth to me. I’ve heard the like of you, that pretend to be philosophers, arguing against ane, when ane wanted to prig down a thing honestly, that what was asked was naething mair than the thing’s absolute worth. But what have I to do wi’ absolute worth? What is’t worth to me? That’s my wisdom, Sandy Muir; and to hear you, that everybody kens has just had as little discernment as a bairn, and been imposed on by the haill town, telling me what’s cheap and what’s dear! I reckon if Solomon had been here, he would have found out at last the new thing that he took sic bother about, honest man.”
“Weel, Miss Jean, I may have been imposed on—I’ll no say,” said the old man, looking slightly displeased. “Most folk have, one time or another; but you’re no asking what kind of a place they’ve gotten, nor about the bairns themsels.”
“Yell think yoursel up the brae, Sandy,” said Miss Jean, “uncle, nae less, to a laird; but I’m less heeding, I’m thankful, of the vanities of this warld. Is’t a’ guid brown earth the lad’s siller comes from, or is’t siller in the bank, or what is it? But you needna tell me about their grand claes and their braw house, for my mind’s a different kind of mind from that.”
“It’s a’ guid brown earth, as you say, Miss Jean,” said the old man, eagerly seizing this opening to begin his attack; “that is, a’ but some houses; and Harry like a thrifty man, is giving his attention to the land, and says, with good work, it could be made twice as profitable. You will be glad to hear of that, Miss Jean.”
“I would be glad to hear it, if I didna ken that nae profit in this world would ever make yon wasteful callant thrifty,” said the old woman, leaning back in her chair, and pressing the great borders of her cap close to her face with two dingy, shrivelled hands. “Do ye think I dinna ken as weel as you that he’s gaen and gotten a grand house, and deckit out yon bit doll o’ his as fine in ribbons and satins, as if she were a countess? Na, Sandy, I’ll no gie up my discrimination. Harry Muir will come to want yet, or you may ca’ me a lee.”
“No fears of Harry Muir,” said the old man warmly. “I have myself, as I was just telling him, two hundred pounds of my ain, besides the garden and the house, and I’ll come to want mysel’, I am well assured of that, before want touches Harry Muir—but that’s no the question; you see he could double his incoming siller in the year, if he could do justice to this farm; and the auld farmer, a Mr. Hunter, a very decent sponsible man, acknowledged the same thing to me, but said he was too old to learn himsel’.”
“Twa hundred pounds! do you mean to say that you’re twa hundred pounds afore the world, Sandy?” said Miss Jean. “Man, I didna think you had sae muckle in ye!—but take you care, Sandy Muir, my man—take you care of the mammon of unrighteousness—it’s a fickle thing to haud it sicker enough, and no to haud it ower fast.”
And as she spoke, a slight twitch passed over the hard muscles of her face; yet she spoke unconsciously, and had not the remotest idea that she condemned herself.
“And what would be your counsel, Miss Jean?” said Uncle Sandy, not without a little tremor. “It would cost siller at first, you see, to work upon this farm; but no doubt it’s sure to answer, being just like sowing seed, which is lost for a time, but in spring is found again in the green ear and blade. The lad is anxious to be well advised, and no begin without good consideration; so what would you say?”