“Cousin,” he said fretfully, “there is a new firm in Glasgo’ to-day.”

“I hae heard tell o’ it.  God send it prosperity.”

“It isna likely, Jenny; auld Lady Brith’s money to start it!  The godless auld woman!  If Davie taks her advice, he’s a gane lad.”

“Then, deacon, it’s your ain fault.  Whatna for did ye not gie him the L2,000?”

“Just hear the woman!  It taks women and lads to talk o’ L2,000 as if it were picked up on the planestanes.”

“If ye had loaned it, deacon, ye would hae had the right to spier into things, and gie the lad advice.  He maun tak his advice where he taks his money.  Ye flung that chance o’ guiding Davie to the four winds.  And let me tell ye, Cousin Callendar, ye hae far too tight a grip on this warld’s goods.  The money is only loaned to you to put out at interest for the Master.  It ought to be building kirks and schoolhouses, and sending Bibles to the far ends o’ the earth.  When you are asked what ye did wi’ it, how will you like to answer, ’I hid it safely awa, Lord, in the Clyde Trust and in Andrew Fleming’s bank!’”

“That will do, woman.  Now you hae made me dissatisfied wi’ my guiding o’ Davie, and meeserable anent my bank account, ye may gang to your bed; you’ll doobtless sleep weel on the thought.”

CHAPTER III.

However, sometimes things are not so ill as they look.  The new firm obtained favor, and even old, cautious men began to do a little business with it.  For Robert introduced some new machinery, and the work it did was allowed, after considerable suspicion, to be “vera satisfactory.”  A sudden emergency had also discovered to David that he possessed singularly original ideas in designing patterns; and he set himself with enthusiasm to that part of the business.  Two years afterwards came the Great Fair of 1851, and Callendar & Leslie took a first prize for their rugs, both design and workmanship being honorably mentioned.

Their success seemed now assured.  Orders came in so fast that the mill worked day and night to fill them; and David was so gay and happy that John could hardly help rejoicing with him.  Indeed, he was very proud of his nephew, and even inclined to give Robert a little cautious kindness.  The winter of 1851 was a very prosperous one, but the spring brought an unlooked-for change.

One evening David came home to dinner in a mood which Jenny characterized as “thrawart.”  He barely answered her greeting, and shut his room-door with a bang.  He did not want any dinner, and he wanted to be let alone.  John looked troubled at this behavior.  Jenny said, “It is some lass in the matter; naething else could mak a sensible lad like Davie act sae child-like and silly.”  And Jennie was right.  Towards nine o’clock David came to the parlor and sat down beside his uncle.  He said he had been “greatly annoyed.”

“Annoyances are as certain as the multiplication table,” John remarked quietly, “and ye ought to expect them—­all the mair after a long run o’ prosperity.”