Next morning Mrs. Callender heard John Storm singing to himself before he left his bedroom, and she was standing at the bottom of the stairs when he came down three steps at a time. “Bless me, laddie,” she said, “to see your face shining a body would say that somebody had left ye a legacy or bought ye a benefice instead of taking your church frae ye!” “Why, yes, and better than both, and that's just what I was going to tell you.” “You must be in a hurry to do it, too, coming downstairs like a cataract.” “You came down like a cataract yourself once on a time, auntie; I'll lay my life on that.” “Aye, did I, and not sae lang since neither. And fools and prudes cried 'Oh!' and called me a tomboy. But, hoots; I was nought but a body born a wee before her time. All the lasses are tomboys now, bless them, the bright heart-some things!” “Auntie,” said John softly, seating himself at the breakfast table, “what d'ye think?” She eyed him knowingly. “Nay, I'm ower thrang working to be bothered thinking. Out with it, laddie.” He looked wise. “Don't you remember saying--that work like mine wanted a woman's hand in it?” Her old eyes blinked. “Maybe I did, but what of it?” “Well, I've taken your advice, and now a woman's hand is coming into it to guide it and direct it.” “It must be the right hand, though, mind that.” “It _will_ be the right hand, auntie.” “Weel, that's grand,” with another twinkle. “I thought it might be the _left_, ye see, and ye might be putting a wedding-ring on it!” And then she burst into a peal of laughter. “However did you find it out?” he said, with looks of astonishment. “Tut, laddie, love and a cough can not be hidden. And to think a woman couldna see through you, too! But come,” tapping the table with both hands, “who is she?” “Guess.” “Not one of your Sisters--no?” with hesitation. “No,” with emphasis. “Some other simpering thing, na doot-they're all alike these days.” “But didn't you say the girls were all tomboys now?” “And if I did, d'ye want a body to be singing the same song always? But come, what like is she? When I hear of a lassie I like fine to know her colour first. What's her complexion?” “Guess again.” “Is she fair? But what a daft auld dunce I am!--to be sure she's fair.” “Why, how did you know that, now?” “Pooh! They say a dark man is a jewel in a fair woman's eye, and I'll warrant it's as true the other way about. But what's her name?” John's face suddenly straightened and he pretended not to hear. “What's her name?” stamping with both feet. “Dear me, auntie, what an ugly old cap you're wearing!” “Ugly?” reaching up to the glass. “Who says it's ugly?” “I do.” “Tut! you're only a bit boy, born yesterday. But, man, what's all this botherment about telling a lassie's name?” “I'll bring her to see you, auntie.” “I should think you will, indeed! and michty quick, too!”