John Storm laughed, and that provoked her to towering indignation. "Good
God, what are you thinking of, man? There's that puir lassie--you're
running away from her, too, aren't you? It's shameful, it's disgraceful,
it's unprincipled, and _you_ to do it too!"

"You needn't trouble about that, auntie," said John; "she is going with
me."

"What?" cried Mrs. Callender, and her face expressed boundless
astonishment.

"Yes," said John, "you women are brimful of courage, God bless you! and
she's the bravest of you all."

"But you'll no have the assurance to tak' that puir bit lassie to yonder
God-forsaken spot?"

"She wants to go--at least she wants to leave London."

"What does she? Weel, weel! But didn't I say she was nought but one of
your Sisters or sic-like?--And you're going to let a slip of a girl tak'
you away frae your ain work and your ain duty--and you call yourself a
man!"

He began to coax and appease her, and before long the grim old face was
struggling between smiles and tears.

"Tut! get along wi' ye! I've a great mind, though--I'd be liking fine to
see her anyway. Now, where does she bide in London?"

"Why do you want to know that, auntie?"

"What's it to you, laddie? Can't a body call to say 'Good-bye' to a
lassie, and tak' her a wee present before going away, without asking a
man's permission?"

"I shouldn't do it, though, if I were you."

"And why not, pray?"

"Because she's as bright as a star and as quick as a diamond, and she'd
see through you in a twinkling. Besides, I shouldn't advise----"

"Keep your advice like your salt till you're asked for it, my man--and to
think of any reasonable body giving up his work in London for
that--that----"

"Good men have gone out to the mission field, auntie."

"Mission fiddlesticks! Just a barber's chair, fit for every comer."

"And then this isn't the mission field exactly either."

"Mair's the pity, and then you wouldna be running bull-neck on your death
before your time."

"None of us can do that, auntie, for heaven is over all."

"High words off an empty stomach, my man, so you can just keep them to
cool your parridge. But oh, dear--oh, dear! You'll forget your puir auld
Jane Callender, anyway."

"Never, auntie!"

"Tut! don't tell me!"

"Never!"

"It's the last I'm to see of you, laddie. I'm knowing that fine--and me
that fond of you too, and looking on you as my ain son."

"Come, auntie, come; you mustn't take it so seriously.