“Then ye’d better think it over now, for Mr. Symington’s pretty sure to come again to-night.” “If he comes, I can only tell him what I told you—of course, I’ll do it politely. . . . Uncle John, why are you so anxious for me to marry that man? Tell me straight—do you and Aunt Rachel want to get rid of me?” Corrie hesitated. He dared not say, as he was tempted to say, that he could not afford to give her a home any longer, because, for one thing, the girl was as well aware as himself that he kept the allowance made by the post-office for her services as assistant—an assistant, by the way, who did practically all the work. “Not so long ago you thought very little of Mr. Symington,” she pursued, “and I’ve often heard Aunt Rachel call him anything but a nice man. Besides, he must be nearly forty.” “That’s enough,” said Corrie sharply. “Your aunt and me know him better than we used to. We want you to marry him because we see ’twould be a good thing for you. Same time, he’s come into a heap of money.” “Ay,” said Miss Corrie, “he has that! He’s talking o’ giving up the farm and setting up house in the city—Glasgow, maybe. That would suit ye fine, Kitty.” “I’m sorry I can’t do what you want,” the girl said slowly. “I’d rather be dead than married to him. He—” “Don’t talk trash!” exclaimed Corrie, lowering upon her. “Ye’ll give him ‘ay’ to-night or it’ll be the worse for ye. Don’t you try to cross me, ye daughter o’ a beggar!” “John!” squealed his sister. Kitty was on her feet, her beautiful eyes blazing from her white face. “How dare you?” she cried, shaking with furious indignation, “how dare you speak so of my father, a man with a great, noble mind?—you, you miserable thing, with not an idea in your head, not a thought in your heart, but money, money, money! My father owes you nothing—nothing, do you hear? His daughter has earned every penny she has cost you.” John Corrie, unused to contradiction, much less to retaliation, rose, grey of countenance, shaking with passion. Probably he was not aware that he had the bread knife in his hand, but his sister grabbed his wrist. “Listen to me,” he began in a thick voice. “I won’t! You are not sane,” said Kitty, “or you would never have spoken such words about my father, your own sister’s husband—not that I’ll ever forgive them or you. But you are mad—mad with greed! I tell you, once and for all, I’m not for sale to Mr. Symington!” He sat down with a crash, his mouth gaping. “Go, go!” whispered Miss Corrie, motioning frantically with her free hand. “It’s eight o’clock—time the office was open.” Kitty turned and went. She was glad to go, for her courage was already burned out. Miss Corrie shook her brother. “Ye fool, ye forsaken fool!” she sputtered. “That temper o’ yours has ruined everything. Ye’ll never get her to marry him now.” He turned on her savagely. “What ha’ ye told her?” “Me? Never a word.”