e mither's no to be said aboot," answerd Donal. "She's ane by
hersel', no ane like ither fowk. Ye wadna think waur o' the angel
Gabriel 'at he hedna jist read Homer clean throu', wad ye?"

"If I did," answered Gibbie, "he would only tell me there was time
enough for that."

When they met on a Friday evening, and it was fine, they would rove
the streets, Gibbie taking Donal to the places he knew so well in
his childhood, and enjoying it the more that he could now tell him
so much better what he remembered. The only place he did not take
him to was Jink Lane, with the house that had been Mistress
Croale's. He did take him to the court in the Widdiehill, and show
him the Auld Hoose o' Galbraith, and the place under the stair where
his father had worked. The shed was now gone; the neighbours had by
degrees carried it away for firewood. The house was occupied still
as then by a number of poor people, and the door was never locked,
day or night, any more than when Gibbie used to bring his father
home. He took Donal to the garret where they had slept--one could
hardly say lived, and where his father died. The door stood open,
and the place was just as they had left it. A year or two after,
Gibbie learned how it came to be thus untenanted: it was said to be
haunted. Every Sunday Sir George was heard at work, making boots
for his wee Gibbie from morning to night; after which, when it was
dark, came dreadful sounds of supplication, as of a soul praying in
hell-fire. For a while the house was almost deserted in
consequence.

"Gien I was you, Sir Gilbert," said Donal, who now and then
remembered Mrs. Sclater's request--they had come down, and looking
at the outside of the house, had espied a half-obliterated
stone-carving of the Galbraith arms--"Gien I was you, Sir Gilbert, I
wad gar Maister Scletter keep a sherp luik oot for the first chance
o' buyin' back this hoose. It wad be a great peety it sud gang to
waur afore ye get it. Eh! sic tales as this hoose cud tell!"

"How am I to do that, Donal? Mr. Sclater would not mind me. The
money's not mine yet, you know," said Gibbie.

"The siller is yours, Gibbie," answered Donal; "it's yours as the
kingdom o' h'aven's yours; it's only 'at ye canna jist lay yer han's
upo' 't yet. The seener ye lat that Maister Scletter ken 'at ye ken
what ye're aboot, the better. An' believe me, whan he comes to
un'erstan' 'at ye want that hoose koft, he'll no be a day ohn gane
to