(Mhor never let slip an opportunity for
theological discussions.) "I wouldn't care much to go to heaven myself,
for all my friends are in"--he stopped and cast a cautious glance at
Jean, and, judging by her expression that discretion was the better part
of valour, and in spite of an encouraging twinkle in the eyes of Jock,
finished demurely--"the Other Place."

"Haw, haw," laughed Jock, who was consistently amused by Mhor and his
antics. "I'm sorry for your friends, old chap. Do I know them?"

"Well," said Mhor, "there's Napoleon and Dick Turpin and Graham of
Claverhouse and Prince Charlie and----"

"Mhor--you're talking too much," said David, who was jotting down
figures in a notebook.

"It's to be hoped," said Jean to Mrs. M'Cosh, "that the honourable lady
will suit Bella Bathgate, for Bella, honest woman, won't put herself
about to suit anybody. But she's been a good neighbour to us. I always
feel so safe with her near; she's equal to anything from a burst pipe to
a broken arm.... I do hope that landlord of ours in London will never
take it into his head to come back and live in Priorsford. If we had to
leave The Rigs and Bella Bathgate I simply don't know what we'd do."

"We could easy get a hoose wi' mair conveniences" Mrs. M'Cosh reminded
her. She had laid down the tray again and stood with her hands on her
hips and her head on one side, deeply interested "Thae wee new villas in
the Langhope Road are a fair treat, wi' a pantry aff the dining-room an'
hot and cold everywhere."

"_Villas_," said Jean--"hateful new villas! What are conveniences
compared to old thick walls and queer windows and little funny stairs?
Besides, The Rigs has a soul."

"Oh, mercy!" said Mrs. M'Cosh, picking up the tray and moving at last to
the door, "that's fair heathenish!"

Jean laughed as the door shut on their retainer, and perched herself on
the end of the big old-fashioned sofa drawn up at one side of the fire.
She wore a loose stockinette brown dress and looked rather like a wood
elf of sorts with her golden-brown hair and eyes.

"If I were rich," she said, "I would buy an annuity for Mrs. M'Cosh of
at least L200 a year. When you think that she once had a house and a
husband, and a best room with an overmantel and a Brussels carpet, and
lost them all, and is contented to be a servant to us, with no prospect
of anything for her old age but the workhouse or the charity of
relations, and keeps cheery and never makes a moan a