"Mother," Janet whispered, "you must send him away." "I have only three pounds in the world," said Mrs. Gourlay; and she put her hand to her breast where it was, but winced as if a pain had bitten her. "Send him away wi't," said Janet. "The furniture may bring something. And you and me can aye thole." In the morning Mrs. Gourlay brought two greasy notes to the table, and placed them in her son's slack hand. He was saner now; he had slept off his drunken madness through the night. "John," she said, in pitiful appeal, "you maunna stay here, laddie. Ye'll gie up the drink when you're away--will ye na?--and then thae een ye're sae feared of'll no trouble you ony mair. Gang to Glasgow and see the lawyer folk about the bond. And, John dear," she pleaded, "if there's nothing left for us, you'll try to work for Janet and me, will ye no? You've a grand education, and you'll surely get a place as a teacher or something; I'm sure you would make a grand teacher. Ye wouldna like to think of your mother trailing every week to the like of Wilson for an awmous, streeking out her auld hand for charity. The folk would stand in their doors to look at me, man--they would that--they would cry ben to each other to come oot and see Gourlay's wife gaun slinkin' doon the brae. Doon the brae it would be," she repeated, "doon the brae it would be"--and her mind drifted away on the sorrowful future which her fear made so vivid and real. It was only John's going that roused her. Thomas Brodie, glowering abroad from a shop door festooned in boots, his leather apron in front, and his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, as befitted an important man, saw young Gourlay pass the Cross with his bag in his hand, and dwindle up the road to the station. "Where's _he_ off to now?" he muttered. "There's something at the boddom o' this, if a body could find it out!" CHAPTER XXVII.