“For a’ that has happened ye,” said Robin, “ye hae just yoursel to blame, for giein’ up the key and the siller to her management that nicht ye gaed to Orange Lane. That is the short and the lang o’ a’ your troubles, Patie.”
“Do you think sae?” inquired the little bicker-maker.
“Yes, I think sae, Peter, and I say it,” said Robin; “and there is but ae remedy left.”
“And what is that?” asked Patie, eagerly.
“Just this,” said Robin—“stop the supplies.”
“Stop the supplies!” returned Patie—“what do you mean, Robin? I canna say that I fully comprehend ye.”
“I just mean this,” added the other; “be your ain banker—your ain cashier—be maister o’ your ain siller—let her find that it is to you she is indebted for every penny she has the power to spend; and if ye dinna bring Tibby to reason and kindness within a month, my name’s no Robin Roughead.”
“Do ye think that wad do it?” said Patie.
“If that wadna, naething wad,” answered Robin; “but try it for a twelvemonth—begin this very nicht; and if we baith live and be spared to this time next year, I’ll meet ye again, and I’ll be the death o’ a mutchkin, but that ye tell me Tibby’s a different woman—your bairns different—your hale house different—and your auld mither comfortable.”
“O man, if it might be sae,” said Patie; “but this very nicht, the moment I get hame, I’ll try it—and, if I succeed, I’ll try ye wi’ a bottle o’ wine, and I believe I never drank ane in my life.”