“I thought there was something to the fore--something in the bank to begin you with? ay, yes--I did not mind, you have spent that in the house; but, Harry, I have nothing myself, but two hundred pounds, and I wanted, if it were God’s will, to leave some bit present to the bairns when I was gone; besides two hundred pounds could do little for you, Harry.” “Nothing at all,” said Harry quickly; “but I have a plan you might help me in. How much money will Miss Jean have, uncle?” “Jean Calder?--na, na, Harry,” said the old man, shaking his head. “I would not with my will, speak ill or judge unkindly of any mortal, but charity--I am meaning the free heart and the kind thought--is not in her. Did you no hear the fight we had to get your papers from her? No, Harry; I’m sorry to damp you. She may have a thousand pounds, maybe. As much as that I warrant; but you’ll make nothing of Miss Jean.” “A thousand pounds! My plan, uncle is to offer her better interest than she could get elsewhere,” said Harry. “As for her kindness, I should never think of that; and I would not ask it, because I was her brother’s grandson, but because I could offer her so much per cent.; that’s the way. Now a thousand pounds from Miss Jean would make these lands bear other crops than this--look, uncle.” They were standing at the corner of a field of thin and scanty corn. The long ears bent upon the breeze, like so many tall attenuated striplings; and their chill green contrasted unpleasantly with the rich brown tint which began to ripen over a full, rustling, wholesome field on the other side of the way. “It’s a poor crop,” said Uncle Sandy, meditatingly; “it’s like the well doings of a cauld heart--it wants the good-will to grow. But Jean Calder, Harry--Jean Calder help any man! Well, Providence may soften her heart; but it is not in her nature.” “She will give the money for her own profit,” said Harry; “no fear. I will consult Mr. Lindsay, and we can offer her good interest. Then you see, uncle, the advantage of it is, that we are her rightful heirs, and she is a very old woman now.” “Whisht, Harry; let me never hear the like of this again,” said his uncle, gravely; “you are a young man now, but God may keep you to be an old one. Never you reckon on the ending of a life, that it is in God’s hand to spare or take away, and never grudge the air of this living world--such as it is, we aye desire to breathe it lang ourselves--to one that He keeps in it day by day, nourishing the auld worn-out heart with breath and motion, for good ends of His ain. And, Harry, this money is the woman’s life--I could not think of the chance of its perishing without pain and trouble, for it would be a dreadful loss to her--like the loss of a bairn.” “Well, well, uncle, no chance of its being lost,” said Harry, somewhat fretfully; “but will you speak to her when you go back to Ayr? will you undertake to negociate this for me? I know she trusts you.”