The “bonnie man” paused irresolute; needless to say that the pair had entirely misconceived the object of the advertisement, and the service sought from them. They had not thought it possible, or rather Jean had not thought it possible--for John’s mind did not readily exercise itself on an abstract question--that “the family” could have any wish but to nullify, if possible, the irregular marriage; “no to get ourselves into trouble” had been the principle of the pair from beginning to end of the transaction, and they had kept themselves out of the way of Agnes, whose search after them they had heard of. “We’ll get ourselves into hot water, and you’ll lose your place, and muckle Agnes Jeffrey can do to make it up to us,” Jean had said. To swear falsely was a crime which neither of the two could have wound themselves up to; but to be silent! that was another matter. The tongue is an unruly member, doing much harm in the world; but to say nothing how good it is! Had Mr. Charles been a cynic he would have watched this self-controversy to an end, and no doubt enjoyed it, as knowing how it must infallibly end; but Mr. Charles was no cynic; he preferred to interrupt the struggle before it ended in the subjugation of John’s wavering virtue. “Look here,” he said suddenly and sharply, “and hold you your tongue, Mrs. Macgregor, I’m speaking to your man. You were present when my nephew, Tom Heriot, married a girl up in Strathmore, Isabell--what was her name? They took each other as man and wife in your presence? Answer me aye or no, is that true?” “I was there too,” cried Jean astonished. “I’m as sure a witness as him; we were both together in our ain kitchen, no heeding the two young fools. I said to Mr. Heriot, ’dinna do’t’--but wha was to make the young gentleman mind me?” “Then it’s true? You’ve told me a lie to begin with, woman, and you were willing to tell me another. Man, it’s for you to answer. Your name is John Macgregor, and it’s true?” “As sure as death, as true’s the Bible. I’m no a man of many words like her, but naething would have made me mansworn!” said John, in the pleasure of being personally appealed to. “And I’ll no deny my name. John Macgregor’s my name, ance gillie to the laird in Strathmore, then odd man about the Moors doing whatever turned up--then--” “It’s a speat when it comes,” said Jean composedly, folding her hands upon her bosom and regarding Mr. Charles with a vindictive pleasure, “you’ve brought it on yoursel.” “This then is what is wanted of you,” said Mr. Charles hastily. “To prove this; not to go away, as you thought, and hold your tongues, and dishonour a woman, and wrong a bairn; what you’ve got to do is to prove this. Hold your tongue, woman--”