It had become a habit with M. Tod to express observations of this sort prior to going out, a habit, also, to accept all Christina’s innovations and improvements as originally inspired by herself. Even the painting of the shop, which, when first mooted by the girl, had seemed about as desirable as an earthquake, had gradually become her very own bright idea. Happily Christina had no difficulty in tolerating such gentle injustices; as a matter of fact, she preferred that her mistress should be managed unawares. “Tak’ a squint at the window when ye gang oot,” she said, pleasantly. “Ye ha’ena seen it since it was dressed. There’s a heap o’ cheap trash in it, but it’s trash that draws the public noo-a-days.” “Oh, I wudna say that, dearie,” said the old woman. “I’ve aye tried to gi’e folk guid value.” “Ay! Ma aunt was like that――near ruined hersel’ tryin’ to gi’e the public what it didna want. What the public wants is gorgeousness――an’ it wants it cheap. Abyssinian Gold an’ papermashy leather an’ so on. See thon photo-frames!”――Christina pointed――“the best sellin’ photo-frames ever we had! In a week or so, they get wearit sittin’ on the mantel-piece, an’ doon they fa’ wi’ a broken leg; in a fortnight they look as if they had been made in the year ten B.C.! Behold thon purses! Safer to carry yer cash in a paper poke, but the public canna resist the real, _genuine_ silver mounts. Observe thon――――” “Weel, weel,” Miss Tod mildly interrupted, “it’s maybe as ye say, an’ I canna deny that custom’s improvin’. But it’s a sad pity that folk winna buy the best――――” “Oh, let the folk pity theirsel’s――when they get sense――an’ that’ll no’ be this year. Gi’e them what they want, an’ never heed what they need. That’s the motto for a shop-keeper. Come ower here for a minute till I sort yer bonnet, or ye’ll be lossin’ twa o’ yer grapes. I hear figs an’ onions is to be the favourite trimmin’ next Spring. Ye could dae wi’ a new bonnet, Miss Tod.” “So I could,” the old woman wistfully admitted as she submitted her headgear to her assistant’s deft fingers. “I couldna say when I got this yin.” “Oh, I’m no’ keen on dates. But”――encouragingly――“we’ll tak’ stock next week, an’ when we’ve struck the half-year’s balance I’ll no’ be surprised if ye tak’ the plunge an’ burst a pound-note at the milliner’s.” Christina administered a final pat to the ancient bonnet. “Noo ye’re ready for the road. See an’ no’ catch cold. I’ll ha’e the kettle at the bile against yer return at five.” “I’ll no’ be late,” replied M. Tod who, to tell the truth, was already wishing it were tea-time, and moved to the door. “I suppose,” said Christina, “ye wudna care to call at the Reverend Mr. McTavish’s an’ politely ask for payment o’ his account――consistin’ chiefly o’ sermon-paper. He’s a whale for sermon-paper!” “Oh, dearie, dearie, I couldna dae that,” faltered M. Tod, and made her escape.