“It’s you that just canna understand. It’s maybe not your fault. I was very muckle taken up with mysel’ and what I had to put on, when I was your age. No your mother: she was aye different. It’s me rather that you’re like--for all that ye’ll think shame to speak to me in the street three months after this day.” “What for should I think shame to speak to you,” said Marion; “for everybody knows ye belong to us, Aunty Jane? There would be no reason for that: we cannot hide it if we wanted to hide it. It would just be bringing odium on ourselves.” “And that’s a’ ye have to say?” “What more should I say? I’ll just go and take off the skirt, and run round to Miss Peebles about the body; for between this and Tuesday there’s very little time.” “There is none to lose, that’s true. Ye had better tell her that ye want it on Monday night, for they’re never to be lippen’t to, thae mantua-makers.” “That will be the best way.” But perhaps she felt a little compunctious; for she paused at the door to throw a look back and a word. “I think ye may make your mind easy, Aunty Jane, that papa will not do a shabby thing either to us or to you.” Mrs. Brown raised her hand to dismiss the subject with a certain natural pride. But though she would not discuss it with Marion, in whose calculations affection was not taken into account, it was not without a certain comfort that she adopted this conclusion. No, he would not do a shabby thing. It had never been his character. Even when he was a working man, Jims Rowland had never been shabby. He might be a wee hard to them that offended him, but shabby--no. There was comfort in that. So that perhaps, after all, Marion’s matter-of-fact consolation was practically of more importance than her brother’s feeling. “She’s no an ill creature after all,” Mrs. Brown said to herself.