"Yes," said the Hempie, ironically, "it would—without the playing. Oh no, I am going to have a pair of decent moorland lasses to train to my ways, and Harry will have a first-rate herd to help him on the hill."
Then she laughed a little, very low, to herself.
"The best of it is that he still thinks I am poor," she said. "I have never told him about mother's money, and I mean to ask father to give me as much as he gave you and Grace."
"Of course," said Nance, promptly. "I'll come up and help you to make him."
There was a cheerful prospect in front of Mr. Peter Chrystie, of Nether Neuk, if he did not put his hand in his breeches' pocket to some purpose.
"Will Alec let you come?" queried the Hempie, doubtfully. "He will miss you."
"Oh, I'll tell him it is for the sake of baby's health," said Nance; "and, besides, husbands are all the better for being left alone occasionally. They are so nice when they get you back again."
"What!" cried the Hempie, "you don't mean to say that Alec has fits of temper? I never would have believed it of him."
"Hush!" said Nance. There was again that irritating whispered converse, from which emerged the Hempie's clear voice:
"Oh, but my Harry will never be like that."