“A provision!” said Marion, more doubtfully, “that’s a great thing--but a little assistance you may be quite sure--and we’ll always come and see you, and bring you anything we can. Aunty, ye need not be taking up time with little things of yours when there’s us to settle about. We must go, as papa says we are to go. Is there anything I will be wanting to wear?” “We might all die and be buried, and Mey’s first thought would be what she would have to wear!” “That’s reasonable enough,” said the aunt; “she would want mourning if ony one of the family--but we needna think of that till the time comes. There wouldna be much wanted for me,” she went on, beguiled, however, by the doleful, delightful subject, though it was contrary to her own injunction; “there’s little crape ever wasted on a poor aunty in these days. ‘Oh, it’s no a very near relation--just our aunt,’ they will say, and oot in a’ the colours of the rainbow in six months or less.” “Aunty Jane,” said Marion, in her calm little voice; “it’s no a funeral we’re thinking of, but to go down to Rosmore on Tuesday to meet papa--and mamma.” “I wouldna stoop to call her mamma. I would call her just Mrs. Rowland, as he says.” “I have settled in my mind about that,” said the girl, “but not about my frock. Will I wear that one he bought me at MacColl’s shop? The body’s not made, but Miss Peebles would do it if she got her orders to-night; or I might wear my silk? If you would tell me what you think about that, and just let the other things alone.” “Ye have nae mair feeling,” protested Mrs. Brown, “than a little cat--as ye are.” “But a cat has no need to take thought about its dress,” said Marion, philosophically, “and see, I’m wanting to make a good impression. My silk would maybe look too grown up, and trying to be grand; and it’s a very rustling silk, like your red one, aunty. But I notice that very soft silks are the fashion, and white is becoming to me. If the body was made like that one of Janet MacColl’s----” “With plenty of nice red ribbons----” “No red ribbons at all,” cried Marion, “but just muslin work, and all white. In white,” she continued, with natural perception, “you cannot go far wrong. I wish I was as easy in my mind about Archie. His trousers are all bags at the knees, and there’s something about his coat--Papa,” said Marion, “is an old gentleman, but there’s something quite different about his coat.” “I would just imagine sae,” said Mrs. Brown with contempt. “What is he caring about his coat, a man of his age, whereas Archie’s but a young lad! I would buy a pair of lavender gloves, Archie. With all that money in your pocket ye may weel allow yourself a pair of gloves, and Marion too.”