She instantly took the drawer bodily out, brought it, leaned it against the tea-table, pointed silently into it, with an air of majestic reproach, and awaited the result. “I can find whatever I want,” said the unblushing bachelor, “except money.” “Siller does na bide wi' slovens! hae ye often siccan a gale o' wind in your drawer?” “Every day! Speak English!” “Aweel! How _do_ you _do?_ that's Ennglish! I daur say.” “Jolly!” cried he, with his mouth full. Christie was now folding up and neatly arranging his clothes. “Will you ever, ever be a painter?” “I am a painter! I could paint the Devil pea-green!” “Dinna speak o' yon lad, Chairles, it's no canny.” “No! I am going to paint an angel; the prettiest, cleverest girl in Scotland, 'The Snowdrop of the North.'” And he dashed into his bedroom to find a canvas. “Hech!” reflected Christie. “Thir Ennglish hae flattering tongues, as sure as Dethe; 'The Snawdrap o' the Norrth!'” CHAPTER VIII. GATTY'S back was hardly turned when a visitor arrived, and inquired, “Is Mr. Gatty at home?” “What's your will wi' him?” was the Scottish reply. “Will you give him this?” “What est?” “Are you fond of asking questions?” inquired the man. “Ay! and fules canna answer them,” retorted Christie. The little document which the man, in retiring, left with Christie Johnstone purported to come from one Victoria, who seemed, at first sight, disposed to show Charles Gatty civilities. “Victoria--to Charles Gatty, greeting! (salutem).” Christie was much struck with this instance of royal affability; she read no further, but began to think, “Victoree! that's the queen hersel. A letter fra the queen to a painter lad! Picters will rise i' the mairket--it will be an order to paint the bairns. I hae brought him luck; I am real pleased.” And on Gatty's return, canvas in hand, she whipped the document behind her, and said archly, “I hae something for ye, a tecket fra a leddy, ye'll no want siller fra this day.” “Indeed!” “Ay! indeed, fra a great leddy; it's vara gude o' me to gie ye it; heh! tak it.” He did take it, looked stupefied, looked again, sunk into a chair, and glared at it. “Laddy!” said Christie. “This is a new step on the downward path,” said the poor painter. “Is it no an orrder to paint the young prence?” said Christie, faintly. “No!” almost shrieked the victim. “It's a writ! I owe a lot of money. “Oh, Chairles!” “See! I borrowed sixty pounds six months ago of a friend, so now I owe eighty!” “All right!” giggled the unfriendly visitor at the door, whose departure had been more or less fictitious. Christie, by an impulse, not justifiable, but natural, drew her oyster-knife out, and this time the man really went away. “Hairtless mon!” cried she, “could he no do his am dirrty work, and no gar me gie the puir lad th' action, and he likeit me sae weel!” and she began to whimper. “And love you more now,” said he; “don't you cry, dear, to add to my vexation.”