“Never mind. High winds only blaw on high hills, laddie!”
“'——As for the “fallen sister” whom he has taken under his special care, we confess to a feeling that too much sympathy has been wasted on her already. Her feet take hold of hell, her house is the way of the grave, going down to the chamber of death——'”
Mrs. Callender leaped to her feet. “That's the 'deacon-man; I ken the cloven hoof!”
John Storm had flung the paper away. “What a cowardly world it is!” he said. “But God wins in the end, and by God he shall!”
“Tut, man! don't tak' on like that. You can't climb the Alps on roller-skates, you see! But as for the Archdeacon, pooh! I'm no windy aboot your 'Sisters' and 'Settlements' and sic like, but if there had been society papers in the Lord's time, Simon the Pharisee would have been a namby-pamby critic compared to some of them.”
A moment afterward she was looking out of the window and holding up both hands. “My gracious! It's himsel'! It's the Prime Minister!”
A gaunt old gentleman with a meagre mustache, wearing a broad-brimmed hat and unfashionable black clothes, was stepping up to the door.
“Yes, it's my uncle!” said John, and the old lady fled out of the room to change her cap.
“I have heard what has happened, John, so I have come to see you,” said the Prime Minister.
Was he thinking of the money? John felt uneasy and ashamed.