A flood of honest kindliness swamped the business instinct of Christina. “I didna mean that!” she exclaimed, flopping into homely speech; “an’ I wudna sell ye that rotten inkpot for a hundred pound!” It will be admitted that Macgregor’s amazement was natural in the circumstances. Ere he recovered from it she was in fair control of herself. “It’s as good as sold to the Rev. Mr. McTavish,” she explained. Her sole foundation for the statement lay in the fact that the Rev. Mr. McTavish was to call for a small parcel of stationery about six o’clock. At the same time she remembered her duty to her employer. “But we have other inkpots in profusion,” she declared. The limit of his endurance was reached. “Oh,” he stammered, “I wish ye wudna speak to me like that.” “Like what?” “That fancy way――that genteel English.” The words might have angered her, but not the voice. She drew a quick breath and said: “Are ye a frien’ or a customer?” “Ye――ye ken fine what I want to be,” he answered, sadly. Now she was sure that she liked him. “Well,” she said, slowly, “suppose ye buy a ha’penny penholder――jist for the sake o’ appearances――an’ then”――quickly――“we’ll drop business.” And she refused to sell him a penny one, and, indeed, anything else in the shop that afternoon. It must be recorded, however, that an hour or so later she induced the Rev. Mr. McTavish to buy the ugly inkpot. “It wasna easy,” she confessed afterwards to M. Tod, “an’ I doobt he jist bought it to please me; but it’s awa’ at last, an’ ye’ll never see it again――unless, maybe, at a jumble sale. He was real nice aboot it, an’ gaed awa’ smilin’.” “I hope ye didna deceive the man,” said M. Tod, trying not to look gratified. “I told him the solemn truth. I told him it was on ma conscience to sell the inkpot afore anither day had dawned. It’s no’ every day it pays ye to tell the truth, is it?” The last sentence was happily inaudible to the old woman. “But, lassie, I never intended ye to feel ye had ta’en a vow to sell the inkpot. I wud be unco vexed to think――――” Christina gave her employer’s shoulder a little kindly, reassuring pat. “Na, na; ye needna fash yersel’ aboot that,” she said. Then, moving away: “As a matter o’ fac’, I had compromised myself regardin’ the inkpot in――in anither direction.” Which was all Greek to M. Tod. CHAPTER NINE For a fortnight it ran smoothly enough. There were, to be sure, occasional ripples; little doubts, little fears, little jealousies; but they passed as swiftly as they appeared.