“Very well,” said I, “enough said.  If you want to help me, there’s no doubt but I’ll be glad of it, and none but I’ll be grateful.”

It seemed to me (too soon, I dare say) that I was getting the upper hand of my uncle; and I began next to say that I must have the bed and bedclothes aired and put to sun-dry; for nothing would make me sleep in such a pickle.

“Is this my house or yours?” said he, in his keen voice, and then all of a sudden broke off.  “Na, na,” said he, “I didnae mean that.  What’s mine is yours, Davie, my man, and what’s yours is mine.  Blood’s thicker than water; and there’s naebody but you and me that ought the name.”  And then on he rambled about the family, and its ancient greatness, and his father that began to enlarge the house, and himself that stopped the building as a sinful waste; and this put it in my head to give him Jennet Clouston’s message.

“The limmer!” he cried.  “Twelve hunner and fifteen—­that’s every day since I had the limmer rowpit!* Dod, David, I’ll have her roasted on red peats before I’m by with it!  A witch—­a proclaimed witch!  I’ll aff and see the session clerk.”

     * Sold up.

And with that he opened a chest, and got out a very old and well-preserved blue coat and waistcoat, and a good enough beaver hat, both without lace.  These he threw on any way, and taking a staff from the cupboard, locked all up again, and was for setting out, when a thought arrested him.

“I cannae leave you by yoursel’ in the house,” said he.  “I’ll have to lock you out.”

The blood came to my face.  “If you lock me out,” I said, “it’ll be the last you’ll see of me in friendship.”

He turned very pale, and sucked his mouth in.

“This is no the way” he said, looking wickedly at a corner of the floor—­“this is no the way to win my favour, David.”

“Sir,” says I, “with a proper reverence for your age and our common blood, I do not value your favour at a boddle’s purchase.  I was brought up to have a good conceit of myself; and if you were all the uncle, and all the family, I had in the world ten times over, I wouldn’t buy your liking at such prices.”

Uncle Ebenezer went and looked out of the window for awhile.  I could see him all trembling and twitching, like a man with palsy.  But when he turned round, he had a smile upon his face.

“Well, well,” said he, “we must bear and forbear.  I’ll no go; that’s all that’s to be said of it.”

“Uncle Ebenezer,” I said, “I can make nothing out of this.  You use me like a thief; you hate to have me in this house; you let me see it, every word and every minute:  it’s not possible that you can like me; and as for me, I’ve spoken to you as I never thought to speak to any man.  Why do you seek to keep me, then?  Let me gang back—­let me gang back to the friends I have, and that like me!”

“Na, na; na, na,” he said, very earnestly.  “I like you fine; we’ll agree fine yet; and for the honour of the house I couldnae let you leave the way ye came.  Bide here quiet, there’s a good lad; just you bide here quiet a bittie, and ye’ll find that we agree.”