‘I’m takin my share o’ that, onygait, daurin to advise ye, Francie!--Noo gang, laddie; gang straucht awa and buy the horse.’ ‘I maun rin hame first, to put siller i’ my pooch! I s’ haud oot o’ her gait.’ ‘Gang til my father for’t. I haena a penny, but he has aye plenty!’ ‘I maun hae my horse; there’s nae co’ch till the morn’s mornin.’ ‘Gangna near the place. My father ’ill gie ye the gray mear--no an ill ane ava! She’ll tak ye there in four or five hoors, as _ye_ ride. Only, min’ and gie her a pickle corn ance, and meal and watter twise upo’ the ro’d. Gien ye seena the animal ye’re sure ’ill please her, gang further, and comena hame wantin ’t.’ CHAPTER XL MRS. GORDON When Mrs. Gordon came to herself, she thought to behave as if nothing had happened, and rang the bell to order her carriage. The maid informed her that the coachman had driven away with it before lunch, and had not said where he was going. ‘Driven away with it!’ cried her mistress, starting to her feet; ‘I gave him no orders!’ ‘I saw the laird giein him directions, mem,’ rejoined the maid. Mrs. Gordon sat down again. She began to remember what her son had said when first he gave her the carriage. ‘Where did he send him?’ she asked. ‘I dinna ken, mem.’ ‘Go and ask the laird to step this way.’ ‘Please, mem, he’s no i’ the hoose. I ken, for I saw him gang--hoors ago.’ ‘Did he go in the carriage?’ ‘No, mem; he gaed upo’ ’s ain fit.’ ‘Perhaps he’s come home by this time!’ ‘I’m sure he’s no that, mem.’ Mrs. Gordon went to her room, all but finished the bottle of whisky, and threw herself on her bed. Toward morning she woke with aching head and miserable mind. Now dozing, now tossing about in wretchedness, she lay till the afternoon. No one came near her, and she wanted no one. At length, dizzy and despairing, her head in torture, and her heart sick, she managed to get out of bed, and, unable to walk, literally crawled to the cupboard in which she had put away the precious bottle:--joy! there was yet a glass in it! With the mouth of it to her lips, she was tilting it up to drain the last drop, when the voice of her son came cheerily from the drive, on which her window looked down: ‘See what I’ve brought you, mother!’ he called. Fear came upon her; she took the bottle from her mouth, put it again in the cupboard, and crept back to her bed, her brain like a hive buzzing with devils. When Francis entered the house, he was not surprised to learn that she had not left her room. He did not try to see her. The next morning she felt a little better, and had some tea. Still she did not care to get up. She shrank from meeting her son, and the abler she grew to think, the more unwilling she was to see him. He came to her room, but she heard him coming, turned her head the other way, and pretended to be asleep. Again and again, almost involuntarily, she half rose, remembering the last of the whisky, but as often lay down again, loathing the cause of her headache.