His fiery eyes gave forth a gleam of mingled exultation and anger. “I see,” he said, “you’re jealous, like all your kind. A woman can never stand another being mounted o’er her head. Trust you me, my woman, to take care of Jeanie; it’s my place.” “Yes,” she said, “it’s your place.” Then hesitating, Kirsteen continued: “She would have liked--to go to London with me.” “To London with you!” “It is excusable,” said Kirsteen; “it is natural that a young thing should desire to see a little of the world.” Mr. Douglas expressed his feelings in a harsh and angry laugh. “Out of a mantua-maker’s windows,” he cried; then added with solemnity, “and her mother dead just a week to-day.” “It’s not for want of heart,” said Kirsteen. She paused again, and then speaking quickly with all the courage she could summon up: “Oh, father, yon Lord John--there’s no truth in him; there’s no trust to be put in him! She’s frightened for him, father.” “Hold your peace!” he cried. “I’ll have none of your slandering here.” “Father, mind--you’ll have to be both father and mother to Jeanie. If it should come to pass that every old wife in the clachan had a hold of her bonny name!” Perhaps it was not unnatural that Drumcarro should resent this speech. “If ye will mind your own concerns,” he said grimly, “I will take care of mine. The sooner you go your own gait the better; there will be more peace left behind.” “I have delivered my soul,” said Kirsteen; “the wyte will be upon your own head if you close your eyes. Farewell, father, if we should never meet again.” She stood for a moment waiting his reply; then made him a curtsey as she had done when she was a little girl. Something perhaps in this salutation touched Drumcarro. He broke out into a laugh, not so harsh as before. “Fare ye well,” he said, “you were always upsetting, and wiser than other folk. But I’ll mind what you said about the siller, which was not without reason. And I’ve little doubt but I’ll see ye again. You’re too fond o’ meddling not to come back now ye’ve got your hand in.” This was all the leave-taking between father and daughter, but Kirsteen’s heart was touched as she went away. It was at once a sign of amity and a permission--a condoning of her past sins and almost an invitation to return. CHAPTER XVIII. “Then you are going, Kirsteen?” “I must go, Jeanie. There is no place, and no wish for me here.” “And I am to bide--alone. Oh, there are plenty of folk in the house. My father to gloom at me, and Marg’ret to make me scones, and take care that I do not wet my feet--as if that was all the danger in the world!--and Jamie to sit at his books and never say a word. And on the other side--oh, the deevil, just the deevil himself aye whispering in my ear.” “Jeanie, Jeanie! ye must not say such words.” “It’s like swearing,” said the girl with a scornful laugh, “but it’s true.”