“Let them laugh that win,” said Miss Jean; “and the play’s no played out yet, Sandy Muir. Where’s my guid siller?--and where’s a’ the books and papers I furnished to yon lawyer chield, to make out your prodigal’s claim? Weel, he’s dead--he has nae claim noo--and I crave to ken wha’s the heir?” “His son,” said Martha, distinctly. “His son!--wha’s his son? He was naething but a bit callant himsel. Ay, Sandy, my man, ye thought little of my skill in folk’s lives; ye thocht Jean Calder would have thrissels growing ower her ain head, or ever there came a grey hair in Harry Muir’s! What are ye saying till’t noo, Sandy? No uncle to a laird noo--uncle to naething, but six feet of grass and a headstane! I saw him ance wi’ his hair fleeing in the wind, and his laugh that ye could have heard it half a mile off, and me hirpling on my staff, wi’ never ane looking ower their shouther at me. I kent then in my heart, that auld as I was I would see him dead!--and it’s true this day. Lad, may I sit down? I’ve come for my siller.” Lindsay put a chair towards her silently, and she half fell into it, half voluntarily seated herself. Poor respectable Macalister stood aghast, afraid of her wrinkled face, and the wild gleam in her frosty eyes. Martha, pressing her foot upon the ground, as if she crushed something under it, and clenching her hands together, till the pain of them mingled with the burning pain in her heart, bent down her head and kept silence; while Uncle Sandy, elevating himself with a simple indignant dignity, seemed about to speak several times, but for a sob which choked him, and which he would not have Miss Jean hear. “I’ve come for my siller!” repeated Miss Jean, stamping her foot upon the ground, to give her words emphasis. “What do ye ca’ this woman? It’s Martha, is’t? Weel, there’s little about _her_ for onybody to envie, if it binna her bombazine. Ye would gie a hantle for the yard o’ that now? I wonder ye had the heart--a’ off the prodigal callant’s estate, and cheating folk that he’s awn lawful siller to. And it’s no as if ye were a young lassie either, or ane to be set off wi’ the like o’ thae vanities. I wonder a woman come to your years doesna think shame!” “Listen, Auntie Jean,” said Martha, suddenly raising herself and speaking quick, as if to keep the resolution which she had brought to this pitch: “There is nothing to be envied in me. I have neither youth, nor good looks, nor happiness--and never had! You may deal with me on equal terms: I am able to give you as much as you have hitherto got for this money of yours. I want it, and you want the income from it--give it to me if you choose: if you do not choose, withdraw it at once, without another word. This is all I have to say to you. I will be glad if you take it away and make me free of the connexion of your name; but I will change no arrangement willingly. Now, take your choice; and you, Sir, do the same. This is all I have to say.”