were living in what they counted
luxury: Robert doubted whether he was not ministering to the flesh in
allowing Janet to provide beef-brose for him twice in the week! So
Donal was free to spend for his next neighbours--just what his people,
who were grand about money, would have had him do. Never in their
cottage had a penny been wasted; never one refused where was need.

"An'rew," he said--and found the mother-tongue here fittest--"I'm
thinkin' ye maun be growin' some short o' siller i' this time o'
warklessness!"

"'Deed, I wadna won'er!" answered Andrew. "Doory says naething aboot
sic triffles!"

"Weel," rejoined Donal, "I thank God I hae some i' the ill pickle o' no
bein' wantit, an' sae in danger o' cankerin'; an' atween brithers there
sudna be twa purses!"

"Ye hae yer ain fowk to luik efter, sir!" said Andrew.

"They're weel luikit efter--better nor ever they war i' their lives;
they're as weel aff as I am mysel' up i' yon gran' castel. They hae a
freen' wha but for them wad ill hae lived to be the great man he is the
noo; an' there's naething ower muckle for him to du for them; sae my
siller 's my ain, an' yours. An'rew, an' Doory's!"

The old man put him through a catechism as to his ways and means and
prospects, and finding that Donal believed as firmly as himself in the
care of the Master, and was convinced there was nothing that Master
would rather see him do with his money than help those who needed it,
especially those who trusted in him, he yielded.

"It's no, ye see," said Donal, "that I hae ony doobt o' the Lord
providin' gien I had failt, but he hauds the thing to my han', jist as
muckle as gien he said, 'There's for you, Donal!' The fowk o' this
warl' michtna appruv, but you an' me kens better, An'rew. We ken
there's nae guid in siller but do the wull o' the Lord wi' 't--an' help
to ane anither is his dear wull. It's no 'at he's short o' siller
himsel', but he likes to gie anither a turn!"

"I'll tak it," said the old man.

"There's what I hae," returned Donal.

"Na, na; nane o' that!" said Andrew. "Ye're treatin' me like a muckle,
reivin', sornin' beggar--offerin' me a' that at ance! Whaur syne wad be
the prolonged sweetness o' haein' 't i' portions frae yer han', as frae
the neb o' an angel-corbie sent frae verra hame wi' yer denner!"--Here
a glimmer of the old merriment shone through the worn look and pale
eyes.--"Na, na, sir," he went on; "jist talk the thing ower wi' Doory,
an' lat h