“Well, it is not a very noble art, the art of making money,” said Harry, with assumed carelessness. “Dick Buchanan and the rest of them are shallow fellows in spite of it all. And their father--he has made a fortune--but the honest man is no genius.” “But it _is_ a noble art to refuse to be kept down,” said the ambitious Martha, with a kindling of her eye. “I am ashamed to think that Mr. Buchanan or any other ordinary person, _can_ keep down my brother; and he cannot, Harry. You have less perhaps than you ought to have now, but win more; that is your refuge. And don’t let us throw the responsibility on other people. We have only to answer for ourselves.” “Well, Martha,” said Harry, looking up, “we have not much of the mammon of unrighteousness to answer for. I will tell my uncle you have grown charitable; that is, if it be at all possible to get to Ayr.” “What do you think, Martha?” said Agnes, with some solicitude in her face. “You must go; that is all,” said Martha. The little wife was by no means self-opinionated. She had a great reverence for, and faith in, the decrees of Martha, and knew that what her grave sister resolved would be accomplished “some way,” so she returned pleasantly to the cradle. “And _I_ don’t want to go, Martha,” whispered little Violet, desiring to have her sacrifice appreciated. “My uncle will give the money to Agnes, and I will stay at home and help you to open.” “But you would like to go, Lettie?” said Rose. “No; I would rather stay at home with Martha and you. I think, Martha,” whispered Violet again, “that it will be fine to be our lane just for a wee while--when Agnes is with Harry.” In the elder mind there was a response to the child’s thought--To know that Harry was safe, with the good uncle, and the anxious little wife to guard him, while yet they themselves were left a little while alone, freed from their constant anxiety, to rest and take breath for the future which remained, with all its unknown cares, before them. There was something in the thought which gave Martha relief, and yet oppressed her with a heavier sadness; but Agnes was already gay in anticipation, and eagerly discussing what she should take of her little wardrobe, and how many frocks for baby Harry--for Agnes was still only a girl, and the unusual pleasure filled her with wholesome natural delight--a good and happy contagion which soon spread itself in softened degrees over all the rest. CHAPTER VI. “He left me, wi’ his deein’ breath, A dwelling-house, and a’ that.” OLD SONG. “I WANT a next of kin, Charteris,” said an Edinburgh W. S., entering the little office where Cuthbert sat, solemnly considering the morning’s paper, opposite an elbow-chair, which had very seldom been honoured by the presence of a client. “I want a next of kin, and I can’t tell where to find him.”