“Twa hundred pounds! do you mean to say that _you’re_ twa hundred pounds afore the world, Sandy?” said Miss Jean. “Man, I didna think you had sae muckle in ye!--but take you care, Sandy Muir, my man--take you care of the mammon of unrighteousness--it’s a fickle thing to haud it sicker enough, and no to haud it ower fast.” And as she spoke, a slight twitch passed over the hard muscles of her face; yet she spoke unconsciously, and had not the remotest idea that she condemned herself. “And what would be your counsel, Miss Jean?” said Uncle Sandy, not without a little tremor. “It would cost siller at first, you see, to work upon this farm; but no doubt it’s sure to answer, being just like sowing seed, which is lost for a time, but in spring is found again in the green ear and blade. The lad is anxious to be well advised, and no begin without good consideration; so what would you say?” “I’ll tell ye what I would say, Sandy Muir,” said the miser, spreading back her muslin wings, and leaning forward to him, with them projecting from her face on either side, and her dingy hands supporting her sharp chin; “I would say that a penny saved was as guid as tippence made; and that he should begin now, at the beginning of his time, and lay by and spare, and when he’s an auld man like you, he’ll hae a better fortin than he’ll ever get out of the land. That’s my counsel, and that’s the way I’ve done mysel; and if he makes as gude an end o’ his life as I’ve done o’ mine, I’ll let you ca’ him a thrifty man.” “We’ll nane of us be here to call him so,” said Uncle Sandy, “we’ll baith be in a place where gathered siller is an unthrifty provision. Whiles I think upon that, Miss Jean.” “Ou, ay, the like of you are aye thinking upon that,” said the old woman with fiery eyes; “but I tell ye I’m nane so sure of what may come to pass; for I’ve seen mony a hopefuller lad than Harry Muir--mony a ane that thought in their ain mind they would read the name on my grave-head twenty years after it was printed there, and I’ve pitten my fit upon their turf for a’ that. I’m no wishing the lad ill--I’m wishing naebody ill that doesna meddle wi’ me; but I’ve seen as unlikely things--and you’ll see whether I’m no a sooth prophet, Sandy Muir.” And suddenly withdrawing her hands, and nodding her feeble head in ghastly complacency, the old weird woman leaned back again in her chair. “God forbid ye should! God forbid it!--and spare, and bless, and multiply the lad, and make him an honour and a strength in the land, long after the moss is on my headstane,” said Alexander Muir, with solemn earnestness. “And God bless the young bairns and the hopeful,” added the old man, eagerly, after a pause, “and deliver them from evil eye that grudges at their pleasaunce, or evil foot of triumph on their innocent graves! And God forgive them that have ill thoughts of the sons of youth that are His heritage--blessings on their bright heads, ane and a’!”