And Martha turning her eyes from them, looked to Uncle Sandy, who kept his fixed upon Miss Jean, and was still painfully composing himself to answer her. “No,” said the old woman with a malignant, feeble laugh, “there’s naething to envie in you. I was a different looking woman to you in my young days, Martha Muir; but there was never a well-far’d bit about you a’ your life, and a temper like the auld enemy. I wish you nae ill. I wadna gang out of my gate to do either gude or ill to the like of you, for I dinna think ye’re worth my pains; but mony’s the bonnie lad, and mony’s the bonnie lass I’ve seen hame to the mools, that took their divert off me--and mony a ane I’ll see yet, for a’ that sneck-drawing hypocrite says.” “Ay,” said Martha, “the comely, and the blythe, and the hopeful die away. The like of us that it would be a charity to take out of this world, live all our days, and come to grey hairs. Ay, auntie, the bairns are dying night and morning--the like of us lives on!” “But bless the bairns, Martha--bless them whom the Master was at pains to bless,” cried Uncle Sandy, his eyes shining through tears. “I am old, too, and have seen sorrow; but God preserve and bless the gladness of the bairns!” “Ye’re but a bairn yourself, Sandy Muir,” said Miss Jean, casting upon him a half-angry, half-imbecile glance out of her wandering eyes; “and I’ve gien Mr. Macer a missive about your twa hunder pounds. What does the like o’ you want wi’ siller? and your grand house and garden, my bonnie man, and a’ the young, light-headed gilpies ye train up to vanity? We’ll just see how muckle the wives and the weans will mind about you in Ayr, when ye’re gaun frae door to door wi’ a mealpock and a staff; but ye need never seek frae me.” The old man rose with some dignity: “Martha, my woman, this does not become you and me,” said Uncle Sandy, “we that have grief and the hand of God upon us, are no more to suffer railing than to return it. These folk have heard what ye had to say, and you’re no a person of two minds, or many words. Let us go back to our sorrowful house, and our bereaved bairns, with neither malice nor curse in our hearts, leaving the ill-will with them that it comes from. Ye can hear their answer, Martha, from the gentleman. Ye have said what ye had to say.” Almost mechanically Martha rose to obey him, and took the old man’s arm. But after she had left her seat and taken a few steps towards the door, whither Uncle Sandy hastened her with tremulous speed, she turned round--perhaps only to speak to Lindsay who followed them, perhaps to look again at the old miserable woman, who still was of her own blood, and had scarcely a nearer relative than herself in the whole world.