’Lud, child, yes, I should think so!’ said the fond mother, with, perhaps, a slightly-discontented air. ’Monsters of eight and ten years old! At least, Willy is a well-grown monster, the eldest. The younger is small; he’s in but a crazy state of health, God help him! I know not what to make of it.’ She moved uncomfortably in the bed, as if the thought goaded her. ’For the bairns, or their servant, Jean, I daresay you could scratch me a line, Ally,’ she went on, ’but I’ve other and more solemn letters in hand. You must know I have one most sapient and noble cousin, Archibald Herries, a writer to His Majesty’s Signet, who lives in the town, and to him must I render grave and solemn account of myself, with a prayer for monies, Ally, of the which I stand in parlous need at the present moment.’ ’To be sure I could not write _that_ letter,’ Alison acquiesced. Her patient, with a chin supported on a little white hand, was regarding her attentively. ’Do you know, Ally,’ said she, ’you are rather like my cousin Archie yourself, a sort of Solomon, all the virtues and all the wisdoms and sobrieties combined.’ ’Then you don’t seem to like him much,’ said Alison, with a pout. ’May God forgive me for an ungrateful and most base wretch, if I do not!’ cried her friend, with unexpected energy. ’For of all the debts dependent women ever owed to protecting man, mine to my cousin Archie is the greatest. I should have been in the street, and my poor babes in the gutter long since, but for him. And that’s the truth, Ally, and the plain truth. He who is my natural protector, bound to me by all the most sacred laws of God and man, chose to desert me, and leave me to the care, and even the charity, of others. God be the judge between us! I swear I was guiltless in that matter, and indeed guilt has never been imputed tome. Do you believe it, Ally?’ ’Sure, I believe it with all my heart and soul,’ cried Alison, with kindling eyes. ’And there spoke an enthusiasm and a trusting warmth of nature that were never Archie’s, dear,’ said Mrs. Maclehose, laughing once more. ’No, you are not like him, love. ’Tis for a coldness of nature, a perpetual suspicion that I blame him. He’s not a kindred soul, and we are ever tacitly at war. God knows poor Nancy is no saint. But he misjudges me ever, and the injustice pricks. But there, that’s enough. Let me get finished with this proper, virtuous, tiresome letter.’ In the long evenings of convalescence this seemingly ill-assorted pair were drawn closer and closer together in the links of their sudden friendship. ’Sing to me as you sing to Jacky, love,’ Nancy would say, nestling down among the pillows. And in the gloaming of the quiet room, Alison, folding her hands in her lap, would sing in her sweet deep-throated voice those peculiarly poignant ballads of love and longing and loyalty, with which, since the memorable ’’45,’ the whole of Scotland was flooded.