quit at their earliest
convenience, taking care, however, to see them provided with fresh
quarters, towards which he could himself do not a little, for
several of the houses in the neighbourhood had been bought for him
at the same time with the old mansion. As soon as it was empty, he
set more men to work, and as its internal arrangements had never
been altered, speedily, out of squalid neglect, caused not a little
of old stateliness to reappear. He next proceeded to furnish at his
leisure certain of the rooms, chiefly from the accumulations of his
friend Mistress Murkison. By the time he had finished, his usual
day for going home had arrived: while Janet lived, the cottage on
Glashgar was home. Just as he was leaving, the minister told him
that Glashruach was his. Mrs. Sclater was present, and read in his
eyes what induced her instantly to make the remark: "How could that
man deprive his daughter of the property he had to take her mother's
name to get!"

"He had misfortunes," indicated Gibbie, "and could not help it, I
suppose."

"Yes indeed!" she returned, "--misfortunes so great that they
amounted to little less than swindling. I wonder how many he has
brought to grief besides himself! If he had Glashruach once more he
would begin it all over again."

"Then I'll give it to Ginevra," said Gibbie.

"And let her father coax her out of it, and do another world of
mischief with it!" she rejoined.

Gibbie was silent. Mrs. Sclater was right! To give is not always
to bless. He must think of some way. With plenty to occupy his
powers of devising he set out.

He would gladly have seen Ginevra before he left, but had no chance.
He had gone to the North church every Sunday for a long time now,
neither for love of Fergus, nor dislike to Mr. Sclater, but for the
sake of seeing his lost friend: had he not lost her when she turned
from Donal to Fergus? Did she not forsake him too when she forsook
his Donal? His heart would rise into his throat at the thought, but
only for a moment: he never pitied himself. Now and then he had
from her a sweet sad smile, but no sign that he might go and see
her. Whether he was to see Donal when he reached Daurside, he could
not tell; he had heard nothing of him since he went; his mother
never wrote letters.

"Na, na; I canna," she would say. "It wad tak a' the pith oot o' me
to vreet letters. A' 'at I hae to say I sen' the up-road; it's sure
to win hame ear' or late