her,
she never gave back other than curt if not rude reply. In the
afternoon Jean brought the whisky bottle. At sight of it, Mistress
Croale's eyes shot flame. Jean poured out a glassful, took a sip,
and offered it to Janet. Janet declining it, Jean, invaded possibly
by some pity of her miserable aspect, offered it to Mistress Croale.
She took it with affected coolness, tossed it off at a gulp, and
presented the glass--not to the hand from which she had taken it,
but to Jean's other hand, in which was the bottle. Jean cast a
piercing look into her greedy eyes, and taking the glass from her,
filled it, and presented it to the woman who had built and navigated
the brander. Mistress Croale muttered something that sounded like a
curse upon scrimp measure, and drew herself farther back into the
corner, where she had seated herself on Fergus's portmanteau.

"I doobt we hae an Ahchan i' the camp--a Jonah intil the ship!" said
Jean to Janet, as she turned, bottle and glass in her hands, to
carry them from the room.

"Na, na; naither sae guid nor sae ill," replied Janet. "Fowk 'at's
been ill-guidit, no kennin' whaur their help lies, whiles taks to
the boatle. But this is but a day o' punishment, no a day o'
judgment yet, an' I'm thinkin' the warst's near han' ower.--Gien
only Gibbie war here!"

Jean left the room, shaking her head, and Janet stood alone at the
window as before. A hand was laid on her arm. She looked up. The
black eyes were close to hers, and the glow that was in them gave
the lie to the tone of indifference with which Mistress Croale
spoke.

"Ye hae mair nor ance made mention o' ane conneckit wi' ye, by the
name o' Gibbie," she said.

"Ay," answered Janet, sending for the serpent to aid the dove; "an'
what may be yer wull wi' him?"

"Ow, naething," returned Mistress Croale. "I kenned ane o' the name
lang syne 'at was lost sicht o'."

"There's Gibbies here an' Gibbies there," remarked Janet, probing
her.

"Weel I wat!" she answered peevishly, for she had had whisky enough
only to make her cross, and turned away, muttering however in an
undertone, but not too low for Janet to hear, "but there's nae mony
wee Sir Gibbies, or the warl' wadna be sae dooms like hell."

Janet was arrested in her turn: could the fierce, repellent,
whisky-craving woman be the mother of her gracious Gibbie? Could
she be, and look so lost? But the loss of him had lost her perhaps.
Anyhow God was his Father, w