“Doubtless—it is natural, after having toiled with the slaves in Barbadoes for so many years. The work was kill or cure out there. But tell me—my mother—and yours?”
“Oh, they’re baith weel and hearty, thank the Lord,” answered Black. “But what for d’ye no speer after Jean?” he added in a somewhat disappointed tone.
“Because I don’t need to. I’ve seen her already, and know that she is well.”
“Seen her!” exclaimed Andrew in surprise.
“Ay, you and Jean were seated alone at the little window in the Candlemaker Raw last night about ten o’clock, and I was standing by a tombstone in the Greyfriars Churchyard admiring you. I did not like to present myself just then, for fear of alarming the dear girl too much, and then I did not dare to come here to-day till the gloamin’. I only arrived yesterday.”
“Weel, weel! The like o’ this bates a’. Losh man! I hope it’s no a dream. Nip me, man, to mak sure. Sit doon, sit doon, an’ let’s hear a’ aboot it.”
The story was a long one. Before it was quite finished the door was gently opened, and Jean Black herself entered. She had come, as was her wont every night, to walk home with her uncle.
Black sprang up.
“Jean, my wummin,” he said, hastily putting on his blue bonnet, “there’s no light eneuch for ye to be intryduced to my freend here, but ye can hear him if ye canna see him. I’m gaun oot to see what sort o’ a night it is. He’ll tak’ care o’ ye till I come back.”
Without awaiting a reply he went out and shut the door, and the girl turned in some surprise towards the stranger.