Jess & Co./Chapter 11
XI
"There was Sadness in Kinlochan"
DAVID shook the snow from his coat and cap, and allowing his wife to take possession of them, followed her into the kitchen.
"What an awful night, Davie!" she observed.
"Ay, it's dirty weather," he returned, standing in front of the fire and wiping the moisture from his face. "Is the wee yin sleepin'?"—turning to the cradle.
"Sound.... How did you find Angus?" she asked, after a pause.
Her husband shook his head. "He's gey bad. The doctor's gaun to get somebody to bide wi' him the nicht. I wud ha'e bided masel', if it hadna been for—for—" He halted, glanced at his wife, and sighed.
"For me?" said Jess, with an attempt at a smile.
He glanced at her again, but she avoided his eyes, and he turned to the fire once more without speaking, for her white face frightened him.
"There's a fine fire in the parlor, Davie, and your slippers are toasting on the fender. Away and get warmed. I'll be after you in a minute."
"Wud ye no' like to gang to yer bed, Jess," he said, as he moved slowly to the door.
"What? Bed at half-past seven!"
"I—I thocht ye was maybe wearit."
"Not a bit of it! Away you go and have your smoke. I'm coming to talk to you about—about something."
He stopped at the door. "Mind! ye're no' to touch the books the nicht," he said, seriously.
"All right," she replied, bending to sweep the perfectly tidy hearth.
For a moment or two he regarded her anxiously, then departed drearily to the little, fire-lit sitting-room.
"I maun speak to her; I maun speak to her," he said, to himself. "She's whiter every day, an' she'll no' rest hersel'."
He sat down, like an exhausted man, in the easy-chair, and proceeded to unlace his boots, staring miserably the while at the merry fire.
In the kitchen Jess leaned against the dresser, endeavoring to gain control over the excitement and emotion that quivered and throbbed through her being.
"I ought to be laughing," she thought, "and I feel more like crying. I'm a stupid thing to be so nervous about telling him.... I wonder what he'll say."
Now that her part, self-conceived so many months ago and so often mentally rehearsed, was about to be played, she was seized with a tremulous shyness which wellnigh overpowered her. She felt weak, too. It was as if she had been climbing a hard, steep hill for a great reward and had reached the summit too breathless ever to gasp "I've won!" And the simple romance in her nature demanded that she should make a little story of what might be told in a few quick words.
When at last, after making sure that her baby was slumbering safe and comfortable, she went to join her husband, she entered the parlor more like a culprit than a conqueror.
"Sit here an' rest ye, Jess," begged David, rising from the easy-chair, "an' I'll licht the lamp."
"I'm going to sit here," she returned, taking a high-chair in the shadow.
"Ye're gaun to sit whaur I bid ye, lass," he rejoined; and, stepping forward, he picked her up and deposited her in the easy-chair. There was something so gentle in the touch of his strong arms that Jess came very near to sobbing out her secret there and then.
But she contrived to laugh and say, "That's where the master comes in, Davie.... But don't light the lamp just now," she added, as he was about to put a paper spill to the fire.
"What wey, Jess? D'ye no' think it's cheerier wi' the lamp?"
"I like the fine fire, and—and I'm cheery enough already. Aren't you, Davie?"
He looked down at her. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes very bright. "If ye're cheery, ma dear, it's a' richt, an' I'm cheery alang wi' ye. But I—I wasna cheery a wee while back."
"Oh, but I knew you were vexed about poor Angus, Davie. So was I. You had nothing else to vex you, had you?"
David hesitated before he replied: "I was a wee bit vext aboot yersel', Jess."
"About me?"
"Ay. Tell me—are ye as weel an' happy noo as ye was a year syne?"
"Of course! Indeed, I'm far happier—and I couldn't be that if I wasn't well, could I?"
"Ye're no' as rosy as ye used to be, Jess," he said, abruptly.
"Am I not?" she laughed. "Well, after to-night, to please you, I'll begin to get rosy again, if I have to use sand-paper. Wait and you'll see! Now sit down and light your pipe, and tell me what's to be done about Angus. Did you tell him I was coming to see him to-morrow?"
"I did that, an' he was rale pleased, but—"
"But what?"
"Aw, naethin'. He'll be rale pleased to see ye the morn."
"That's not all he said, Davie. You better tell me the rest."
"Ye'll no be offendit wi' the puir buddy? He's gey auld, ye ken."
"No, no. I'll not be offended."
"Weel, he said he wud be prood to see ye, but wud ye please no' bring him ony nourishin' soup."
"Oh!" Jess smiled; then, becoming grave, said, "But did the doctor not order him to get soup?"
"Ay. But Angus doesna like soup, an' forbye it tak's him a' his time to swallow what he gets frae yer aunt. She's unco' guid til him, he says, but he canna tak' mair nor what he's gettin', an' twa-three folk wants to gi'e him soup forbye her. But, Jess, lass, he said if it was a' the same to yersel', he wud rather ye brocht the wee yin when ye gaed to see him."
"Of course I will," she said, softly. "But Angus isn't in danger, is he?"
"He needs to be ta'en care o'. But Ogilvy's gaun to help us to see that he disna want onythin'. 'Deed, Jess, I whiles think Sam Ogilvy's the best man I ken."
"I think he is, Davie.... He was telling me to-day he had heard that old John Davidson was thinking of giving up his nursery business." For an instant Jess allowed her eyes to rest on her husband's face.
"Ay; I heard somethin' aboot that. He wants to sell his place, for he's gettin' auld, an' he had some siller left him a year syne. Some stranger 'll likely get the place." The joiner seated himself and produced his pipe, but did not light it. He leaned forward, gazing into the fire.
His wife watched him stealthily, and, after a little, remarked in a casual tone:
"I suppose it's a fine nursery?"
"It micht be made a fine yin, if the man that had it was keen," he returned, the least thing moodily.
Jess smiled. "As keen as yourself, Davie?"
David glanced at her and gave a laugh that ended in a sigh. "I doot I'm no' that keen nooadays, lass."
"Oh, Davie!"—reproachfully.
Houston sat upright, as if pulling himself together, and fished a match from his waistcoat pocket. As he struck it against the bowl of his pipe, Jess bent her head lest he should see her face in the light.
"Ye ken fine I'm no' that keen," he said, after he had set his pipe going.
"No, I don't."
"Weel, ye'll ken afore lang, for I tell ye, Jess, the gairden 'll be a disgrace this year," he said, with sad emphasis—"a disgrace!"
"But you mustn't forget the flower shows, Davie."
"I'm done wi' shows, I'm done wi' gairdens, I'm done wi'—"
"No; you're not!"
"But I am!... Oh, ye needna think I'm vext, ma dear. I jist wish I had stoppit the gairdenin' lang syne. I dae that!"
"Oh!"
"But I'm tellin' ye the truth."
"But—but why?"
Without having lit his pipe, David threw the burned match into the fire. "Because gairdenin's no' ma trade," he said, in a low voice, "an' an' I had nae business playin' masel' when you—when you—"
"Oh, Davie, lad!" she cried, greatly moved.
"Jess, Jess, ye ken what I mean. I canna say it. I'm ashamed before ye. ... An' I wantit to be a guid man to ye, wife." He bent forward and hid his face in his hands.
For the moment she could not speak, even to try to comfort him, but she leaned towards him and laid her hand on his hair.
"Wife," he said, huskily.
"Yes, dear," she whispered.
"Are ye sorry ye mairrit me?"
In the fulness of her emotion she laughed softly—laughed as if she had been asked a question too ridiculous to be answered in words.
His hands came slowly from his face; his eyes regarded her with infinite wonder and affection.
"What kin' o' wumman are ye?" he murmured.
"The proudest and happiest in the world," she said, brokenly, and in her turn hid her face.
"Ah, Jess, dinna mak' a joke aboot it," he exclaimed, rising and placing his hands on her shoulders. "Hoo can ye be prood an' happy?"
"Because you've won, Davie!"
"Won! What ha'e I won?"
She was silent awhile, but at last she said, gently, still keeping her face from him, "Sit down, Davie, and I'll try to tell you."
Wondering, he went back to his chair.
She uncovered her face, and twining her fingers in her lap sat gazing into the fire.
"Light your pipe, Davie," she said, breaking a silence.
David obeyed in a mechanical fashion, glancing at her in a puzzled manner.
Presently she abruptly put the question: "Are you not tired of being a joiner yet, Davie?"
"Eh? Tired o' bein' a jiner?" he echoed, in amazement. "What d'ye mean, Jess?"
"Just what I said."
"But what wud I be tired o' ma trade for? Na, na! I doot ye're makin' fun o' me, ma lass. Maybe you're tired o' me bein' a jiner," he said, with a laugh.
"Yes, I am."
"What?"
"I'm tired of you being a joiner," said Jess, seriously.
Her husband stared at her. "Bless me! What 'll ye be say in' next?"
"I'll be saying I don't think you should be a joiner any longer. And I say it!" she replied, quietly.
His face, which had been animated by surprise and curiosity, became gloomy.
"Aw, Jess, am I as bad as a' that?" he asked, sadly. "I—I thocht I had been daein' better this wee while back.... Jess, ma dear."
Jess did not reply immediately. Her fingers tightened against each other.
"Yes, Davie. But you've been neglecting the garden," she said, calmly.
An exclamation burst from her husband's lips. "What ails ye, Jess?"
"I want a garden, Davie—a nice garden."
"Weel, weel!" he cried, in despair.
"I think you should stop being a joiner and be a gardener, Davie."
He stared at her, speechless.
"Don't you think so, too?" she continued. "You could give up the shop, and then—"
"Oh, ma dear," he sighed, rising in alarm, "I was shair ye wasna' weel. Wull ye no' gang to yer bed, an' I—I'll mak' ye a nice warm drink? Come, dearie; ye're jist worn oot. Ye've been workin' ower hard, an' I sudna ha'e let ye. Come."
Mrs. Houston very nearly broke down in her little part, and narrowly escaped flinging her arms about her husband's neck and relapsing into incoherency. But with a strong effort she recovered and restrained herself.
"I'm all right, and I'm quite serious about the garden. Sit down again, Davie; sit down, and tell me exactly what you think."
Unwillingly he resumed his seat, only doing so after reflecting that it might be wise to humor her.
"What do you think?" she asked.
"Aweel, ma deer, I wud be pleased to dae onythin' ye want, but ye maun keep min' that I wudna get muckle pey for workin' in the gairden," he said, speaking gently, and as pleasantly as possible. "Ye maun keep min' o' that. An' I doot"—with a feeble smile—"yersel' an' the wee yin wudna get fat on floo'ers. Wud ye?"
"But you could sell your flowers, and you could grow and sell plenty of other things as well."
"The wee gairden wudna grow enough to keep ye in saut an' sugar."
"You could get a bigger garden" she returned, in a steady voice. "You could take over Mr. Davidson's nursery."
"Ay, dearie," he said, smiling to conceal his anguish, "I could tak' ower the nursery fine—if I had the siller. But I'll ha'e to bide a wee for that."
"Some one else 'll get the nursery."
"Ay, nae doot somebody wull. But we'll no' heed aboot that, Jess. We'll jist gang on as we are the noo, an' I'll try to gi'e the gairden a tidy up some day shin, an' mak' it as braw as I can for the simmer. Noo, ma dear, ye'll gang to yer bed, an' I'll—"
"Sit still, Davie," said his wife; but now her voice was beginning to tremble. "I'll not move from here till you promise to be a gardener—till you promise to sell the shop and buy the nursery. Do you hear that?" There was no mistaking her earnestness.
"Oh, Jess!" he muttered, helplessly. To think that the old temptation of his secret heart should be set before him by his wife!
"I believe the Wilkies would buy the shop if you would give them easy terms for payment—are you listening, Davie?—and I don't think Mr. Davidson would be hard to deal with," said Jess, her heart beating violently, her body quivering.
"Hoo dae ye ken a' that, lass?"
"I—I made inquiries."
David drew a long breath. So it was really her desire that he should make the change.
"Are you vexed with me for interfering?" she inquired, nervously.
"Na, na, ma dear. I can aye trust ye. But, oh, Jess, ye've been thinkin' o' me afore yessel'. D'ye no' ken the risk a man rins changin' his trade? There's a while afore he gets properly settled in the new trade, an' I doot I wud ha'e to pay Davidson mair nor ever I wud get frae the Wilkies.... I see what ye've been tryin' to dae for me, ma dear, an' I'll never forget it, but the thing canna be—it canna be."
"Oh yes, Davie," she said, faintly, as she slipped her hand within her blouse, "I've been thinking of myself and Katie as well as you. I've found out that the nursery would soon bring us more than we've got; and you've made your business worth buying, and with a little more money you would be quite safe to change."
"Ay, lass," said David, wrestling with himself—"ay, lass, I think I micht mak' somethin' oot o' the nursery, but it was you made ma business worth buyin'.... But it canna be—it canna be yet, onywey. If we had fifty pound laid by, I wudna be sae feart, but—"
"Give me your hand, Davie," she whispered.
"Ay, Jess. Are ye for yer bed noo?... Eh? What's this?" Something crackled ever so softly.
"Look," she whispered. "Count them."
"Oh, wife! Whaur did this come frae? Five—ten—fifteen—twinty—twinty-five.... God! A hunner pound!"
He sprang to his feet, trembling. "Whaur did it come frae, Jess?"
"You made it—you made it! Forgive me not telling you, Davie. I—I wanted to surprise you. I wanted to help a little without letting you know. Don't be angry, lad." She broke down then—broke down utterly.
"I made it?" stammered David, half stunned by surprise. "I made a' this money?"
"Nearly all of it, Davie—nearly all of it," she sobbed, as though to excuse herself. "I made a a little of it—just a little. Don't be angry at me for not telling you."
"Angry?... Ma dear!" He dropped on his knees by the side of her chair and sought to wipe away her tears.... "Oh, Jess, I aye said ye was a great wumman."
"And you're not vexed with me?" she murmured, presently.
"I'm jist vext wi' masel', Jess," he said, a little sadly, kissing her. "Ma wife's that guid to me I dinna ken what to say. Oh, but I'm gled I'm no' an auld man!"
"I'm glad you're not, Davie," she returned, with a tender smile. "But don't be vexed, lad, for you've nothing to be vexed about. You've succeeded, and I—oh, I was never so—so proud and happy in all my life!... My dear, good man," she added, as he protested his selfishness in the past, "haud yer tongue an' dinna haver like a sweetie-wife!"
Her little speech in the vernacular was meant to make him smile, but, somehow, it touched him almost to tears, and he bowed his face on her breast, bereft of utterance.
Jess lay back in her chair with a sigh of contentment, and laid her arm about his neck. So they remained, scarcely moving, never speaking, while the fire burned lower and lower.
It was not till he felt her arm relax that David raised his head to look upon her face and to ask the question which had been the most insistent of the many in his mind.
"Jess, ma dear, wull ye tell me hoo ye managed to mak'— Jess! are ye sleepin'?" he whispered.
A coal fell; a flame flared up, illuminating her face.
"Jess!... Wife!" he cried, in terror.
But Jess neither stirred nor spoke.
There was sadness in Kinlochan.
Jess Houston lay ill, and the doctor was puzzled almost to hopelessness. "If Houston were only well off," he said to himself, at last, "I would suggest Matheson." But it was the joiner himself who first made the suggestion for further medical aid.
At the conclusion of the doctor's fourth evening visit—he had been calling thrice a day—David went with him through the dusk to the garden gate.
"Doctor," he said, huskily, "I jist wantit to let ye ken I've some siller here—a hunner pound." He produced the notes which he had found on the parlor floor the day following his wife's seizure. "Doctor, is it ony use?" he asked, anxiously.
The doctor cleared his throat. "I was just thinking that you might like Dr. Matheson—the most skilful man in such cases—to see Mrs. Houston, and—er—er—I was sure you would not grudge any fee for his advice. Shall I communicate with him to-night?"
"Ay: the nicht, doctor, please," said David, eagerly.
"Very well... No, no! Keep the money in the mean time.... And cheer up, Houston. Don't mind anything your wife may say, and don't mention anything in the way of your business, however pleasant. Let her go on thinking you're a gardener—not a joiner. And her aunt must do the same. It seems to content her.... Now I'll go and wire to the man who's most certain to help us. Good-night."
The doctor hurried off, and David was on his way back to the cottage when a high voice recalled him to the gate.
"How is your wife to-night?" inquired Miss Perk. "I was coming to ask, but perhaps you can tell me without my troubling Mrs. Wallace."
He had told her all there was to tell of the doctor's report, adding that the great specialist was being telegraphed for.
"I am glad to hear that. It is the right thing to do, but—" For once Miss Perk checked, nay, strangled in its birth, a question prompted by her curiosity, the question being, "How can you afford it?" To her everlasting credit be the strangling of that question, for, alas! the poor lady has been haunted by its ghost ever since.
Before leaving the gate she put other questions of a sympathetic nature, and finally, in softer tones than Houston had ever heard her employ, she said:
"Tell Mrs. Wallace not to let your wife want anything. Tell her to let me know if I can be of—of any use whatever." Strange that Miss Perk said "use" when she might have said "assistance"!
David returned to the cottage a little less hopeless, a little less dreary than he had left it.
On an evening a fortnight later Mrs. Wallace stepped into the grocer's shop, interrupting Mr. Ogilvy in his occupation of pacing up and down behind the counter.
"Ah, Mistress Wallace, I'm rale glad to see ye," he said, his sad, wearied eyes brightening. "Is there any word?"
"Ay, I jist cam' in fur a meenit to tell ye that David got a letter the nicht frae the nurse. Her an' Jess arrived a' richt, an' Jess is nane the waur o' the journey."
"That's guid news! David 'll be unco pleased."
"Deed, ay. The puir lad's thenkful for the least cheery word the noo. It's a sad time for us a'.... An' puir auld Angus is awa'," sighed Mrs. Wallace.
"Early this mornin'," said Mr. Ogilvy, in a low voice, carefully examining the point of his pencil.
"He sudna ha'e been oot that day."
"Ah, but he wud get up an' gang to see Jess afore she gaed on the boat. He sent Mistress Munro oot a message, sayin' he was gaun to ha'e a bit nap, an' he maun ha'e rose an' pit on his claes whenever her back was turned. I got an awfu' fricht when I seen him comin' doon to the pier, mair like a ghaist nor a man, but no' unhappy-like—no' unhappy-like. But, oh, Mistress Wallace, the wey he smiled when he seen Jess. It wasna like an auld wearit man ava'.... Puir auld Angus."
"It wis yersel' got him hame, wis it no'?"
"Ay. He had a wee rest in the shop, an' then I got Geordie to yoke the horse, for he was gey faur through. At first I was angry at him, but I hadna the he'rt to scold him. He was aye lukin' up in ma face an' sayin', 'It's fine for you, Ogilvy; ye'll see her when she comes hame.'"
"He wis rale ta'en up wi' Jess," Mrs. Wallace gently observed. "She wis aye kind to him.... Eh! but I wish the lass was hame again!"
"Angus left me a message for her," said the grocer, "but I had to promise no' to gi'e it to onybody but hersel', an' I wasna to say what it was about, aither. Hoo lang d'ye think she'll be awa'?"
"Three month, the doctor said. But, oh! Maister Ogilvy, dae ye think she'll get better in a strange place, never seein' her man nor her wean?" she cried, appealingly. "I whiles think we sud never ha'e let them tak' her awa', an' I'm feart they'll no' treat her weel. I'm no' hadin' wi' thae new-fashioned notions."
"Aw, ye mauna let yersel' be cast down, Mistress Wallace," he replied, with far more cheerfulness than he felt. "The doctors ken mair nor you an' me, an' we maun jist boo to their shuperior scienteefic judgment, as it were. Ye'll see Jess when the time comes, but maybe ye 'll no' ken her—she'll be that weel an' strong. 'Deed, ay. Fine ye ken Jess wud never tak' the richt kin o' rest in her ain hoose. The vera sicht o' fameeliar objec's, so to speak, wud mak' her restless. An' thon's a fine nurse she's got wi' her."
"Mphm. I've naethin' to say agin the nurse, though I got mair impiddence frae her in ten meenits nor I've listened to in a' ma born days. Ma certy! I wis jist like a bit o' dirt i' the hoose when she wis there. I daurna tak' a keek at Jess wi'oot the nurse's permeesion. An' when Jess's mither cam' to see her, she wis treat't the same wey. But I'll say this fur the nurse—she wis aye tidy an' clean an' cheery. An' David wis like her servant frae the day she cam' inside the door. But whiles I cud ha'e gi'ed her a guid warm skelpin' when she gi'ed me orders—an' me auld enough to be her mither!"
"Aw, she wasna as young as a' that, Mistress Wallace," said Mr. Ogilvy, bashfully.
"I beg yer paurdon?"
"Oh, naethin'," he replied, hurriedly. "But does Jess like her?"
"I'll no' say she disna. But I doot she'll no' be able to keep Jess frae wearyin'."
"Maybe she'll keep Jess frae worryin'," said the grocer, more hopefully, "an' that's the chief thing."
Mrs. Wallace shook her head. "Jess kens ower weel whit she's costin' her man, an' I'm feart she'll be broodin' ower him no' gettin' the nursery. It's unco sair on her, puir lass, efter she had made up her mind it wis a' richt."
"An' she wrocht that hard for it," Mr. Ogilvy remarked, with a sigh. "Can ye no' persuade David to tak' the len' o' the siller frae me? As I said to him, he can pey interest if he's ower prood to dae itherwise."
"Na; it's nae use. David winna tak' yer siller, Maister Ogilvy; no' but whit he's obleeged to ye fur the offer. He says he'll jist stick to the jinerin'. I wis vext fur him the ither nicht when he fun oot that Jess had been gettin' wark frae her auld maister in the toon—"
"Oh, me! To think o' that!"
"I never kent onythin' aboot it, but she's been workin' at mair books nor her man's. Hauf the siller she gi'ed David that nicht she fent it cam' frae her auld maister. But I wis vext fur David. I'm no' jist shair if Jess wis richt to keep everything back frae him. Whit dae ye think yersel', Maister Ogilvy?"
The grocer hesitated.
"Mind! Ye're no' to think I'm blamin' Jess, the puir lass, fur she intendit it a' fur the best, but dae ye think it wis wice o' her?"
When asked for an opinion Mr. Ogilvy could not, as a rule, refrain from giving the same in lofty style.
"Mistress Wallace," he said, solemnly, "ye ask a question which is an' exceedin' deeficult yin, inasmuch as I've nae experience in the maitter involved, never ha'ein' tastit o' the joys o' matrimony, as it were. But I may say—"
"Tits!"
"Aweel, I—I was gaun to say that I think it's ower shin to say whether Mistress Houston was wice or no'."
"My!" exclaimed the other, in a pitying tone, "ye're whiles an unco blether, Maister Ogilvy. 'Never tastit o' the joys o' matrimony'—did ye no'?"
"Weel—a—it's no' ma fau't," he stammered feebly, endeavoring to raise his eyes to her face but failing utterly.
"Ha'e ye ony nice ham the day?" inquired Mrs. Wallace, abruptly.
"Ham?" he echoed, in confusion.
"Shairly ye ken whit ham is!"
"Ham—oh, ay. I've plenty ham."
"Is't guid?"
"Ay, it's guid," he replied, without enthusiasm. He was altogether depressed.
"I'll tak' hauf a pun, if ye please."
He cut and weighed the ham in silence, while Mrs. Wallace watched him not unkindly.
"Maister Ogilvy," she said, on receiving the small parcel, "ye're a tired man. Shut yer shop and gang to yer bed. Ye wasna there last nicht, I suppose."
"Aw, it's no' the flesh that's wearit, Mistress Wallace," he returned, sadly.
"Maybe it's the banes," she retorted, cruelly; but the next moment she said, in an altered voice, "I ken fine ye're vext about mony things, Maister Ogilvy, an' I'm vext masel'. But we mauna despair. In a wee while we'll ha'e Jess an' David thegither again—I'm share we wull, an' that 'll mak' up fur a lot. Wull it no'?"
His face cleared somewhat. "It wull that!" he said, heartily. "An' maybe Jess 'll get a' she wants yet, and David 'll forget a' his troubles, though they're mony an' black the noo."
"An' ye've made me feel better, Mistress Wallace. Ye've dispelled ma superabundant gloom, as it were. In fac', I'm gaun to hope for the best—the vera best!"
"An' I'll dae the same," said Mrs. Wallace, holding out her hand.
"Guid-nicht to ye, Mistress Wallace.... We—we'll hope thegither."
After her departure, Mr. Ogilvy had several customers, and having served the last of them, he put up the shutters, locked the door, put out the lamps, and retired to the back room, where he brewed himself a cup of tea.
"She was richt," he said, to himself; "I'm a tired man.... But I'm no' done for yet." And he drank his tea slowly, and thought much. His last thought before going to bed was of old Angus, who the previous night had handed him a small tin box containing a number of greasy one-pound notes, several half-sovereigns, and a small handful of silver, together with a piece of paper laboriously inscribed with the following:
"I leav to Mrs. Houston, wife of David Houston, joiner, Kinlochan, 15 ponds— With thanks,
"Fifteen pound," sighed the grocer, as he closed his eyes. "Puir Angus! he did his best. He'll rest happy.... His bit siller 'll no' be refused."
He sighed again, and was on the verge of falling asleep when a mouse began to gnaw in the far corner of the room. The sound was nothing new to him, but on this occasion he found it peculiarly irritating, and after flinging both his shoes into the corner, and emitting several expressions of which he was ashamed, all in vain, he realized that he was wide awake, and became almost as restless as the mouse.
Miserable, he sat up in bed and felt for his pipe and matches. But he never drew them from the pocket of his jacket, for at the moment of contact between his fingers and his pipe a wonderful idea struck him—not that it came from the pipe. Indeed, to this day he tells himself that it came from the mouse, though as a matter of fact, were he to discuss the matter—which he would not—with the greatest of mental philosophers, the greatest of mental philosophers would probably refer him to the greatest of mental physicians. But perhaps Mr. Ogilvy thinks of the mouse that assisted the entangled lion.
At any rate what happened was this. The grocer sat motionless for nigh a minute. Then he drew that which was perhaps the longest breath of his life. Then he raised his right hand above his head, and brought it down with a sounding thwhack upon his leg, and in a jubilant burst addressed himself in these words:
"Samuel Ogilvy, ye're a genius!"