'Well, I'd be off, somehow or other, with all these old debts, sir, and then I'd begin a new business on different principles. I couldn't stand so much carrying over of old scores to new accounts, if I were on my own hook. You never know where you are, and it's cruel to the poor wretches who are always owing; they can't have any independence. Its a poor way of doing business.' 'Oh, indeed! You are not afraid to speak your mind, my young bantam. And pray, where did you pick up all these high and mighty notions?' 'They may be high and mighty, sir, but they're common-sense,' responded Walter, without perturbation. 'You know yourself how you've been worried to death almost, and what a watching these slippery customers need. It is not worth the trouble.' 'Is it not? Pray, how do you know that?' inquired the old man, his eyes glittering as he asked the question. 'I don't know, of course, but you always say you are a poor man,' replied Walter, as he put down the figures of a sum on his slate. 'But you don't believe it, eh? Perhaps that's why you've stuck to me like a leech so long,' he said, with his most disagreeable smile; but Walter never answered. They had been together now for some years, and there was a curious sort of understanding--a liking, even--between them; and of late Walter had taken several opportunities of speaking his mind with a candour which really pleased his strange old master, though he always appeared to be in a state of indignation. 'The only thing I am anxious about is the girl,' he muttered, more to himself than to the lad. 'But she'll find friends--more of them, perhaps, than she'll want, poor thing, poor thing!' These words gave Walter something of a shock, and he looked round in quick wonderment. But the return of Gladys just then prevented him asking the question trembling on his lips. [Illustration] CHAPTER X. IN AYRSHIRE. The old man passed a quiet night, and was so much better in the morning that he insisted on getting up. 'What kind of a morning is it?' was the first question he put to Gladys when she entered the kitchen soon after six o'clock. 'A lovely morning, uncle, so balmy and soft. You can't think what a difference from yesterday, and there's a bird singing a spring song in my tree.' Often yet she said such things. The grey monotony of her life had not quite destroyed the poetic vein, nor the love of all things beautiful. 'Warm, is it? Have you been out?' 'Not yet; but I opened my window and put my head out, and the air was quite mild. A spring morning, Uncle Abel, the first we have had this year.' 'Any sun?' 'Not yet, but he will be up by and by. How have you slept?' 'Pretty well. I am better this morning--quite well, in fact, and directly you have the fire on I'll get up.' 'Don't be rash, uncle, I really think you ought to stay in bed to-day.'