DANIEL DYCE had an office up the street at the windy corner facing the Cross, with two clerks in it and a boy who docketed letters and ran errands. Once upon a time there was a partner—Cleland & Dyce the firm had been—but Cleland was a shy and melancholy man whose only hours of confidence and gayety came to him after injudicious drams. 'Twas patent to all how his habits seized him, but nobody mentioned it except in a whisper, sometimes as a kind of little accident, for in everything else he was the perfect gentleman, and here we never like to see the honest gentry down. All men liked Colin Cleland, and many would share his jovial hours who took their law business elsewhere than to Cleland & Dyce. That is the way of the world, too; most men keep their jovial-money in a different pocket from where they keep their cash. The time came when it behooved Mr. Cleland to retire. Men who knew the circumstances said Dan Dyce paid rather dear for that retirement, and indeed it might be so in the stricter way of commerce, but the lawyer was a Christian who did not hang up his conscience in the “piety press” with his Sunday clothes. He gave his partner a good deal more than he asked.

“I hope you'll come in sometimes and see me whiles at night and join in a glass of toddy,” said Mr. Cleland.

“I'll certainly come and see you,” said Dan Dyce. And then he put his arm affectionately through that of his old partner, and added, “I would—I would ca' canny wi' the toddy, Colin,” coating the pill in sweet and kindly Scots. Thank God, we have two tongues in our place, and can speak the bitter truth in terms that show humility and love, and not the sense of righteousness, dictate.

“Eh! What for?” said Mr. Cleland, his vanity at once in arms.

Dan Dyce looked in his alarmed and wavering eyes a moment, and thought, “What's the use? He knows himself, they always do!”

“For fear—for fear of fat,” he said, with a little laugh, tapping with his finger on his quondam partner's widening waistcoat. “There are signs of a prominent profile, Colin. If you go on as you're doing it will be a dreadful expense for watch-guards.”

Colin Cleland at once became the easy-osey man again, and smiled. “Fat, man! it's not fat,” said he, clapping himself on the waistcoat, “it's information. Do you know, Dan, for a second, there, I thought you meant to be unkind, and it would be devilish unlike you to be unkind. I thought you meant something else. The breath of vulgar suspicion has mentioned drink.”

“It's a pity that!” said Mr. Dyce, “for a whole cask of cloves will not disguise the breath of suspicion.” It was five years now since Colin Cleland retired among his toddy rummers, and if this were a fancy story I would be telling you how he fell, and fell, and fell, but the truth—it's almost lamentable—is that the old rogue throve on leisure and ambrosial nights with men who were now quite ready to give the firm of Daniel Dyce their business, seeing they had Colin Cleland all to themselves and under observation. Trust estates and factorages from all quarters of the county came now to the office at the windy corner. A Christian lawyer with a sense of fun, unspotted by the world, and yet with a name for winning causes, was what the shire had long been wanting. And Daniel Dyce grew rich. “I'm making money so fast,” he said one day to his sisters (it was before Bud came), “that I wonder often what poor souls are suffering for it.”

Said Bell, “It's a burden that's easy put up with. We'll be able now to get a new pair of curtains for the back bedroom.”

“A pair of curtains!” said her brother, with a smile to Ailie. “Ay, a score of pairs if they're needed, even if the vogue was Valenciennes. Your notion of wealth, Bell, is Old Malabar's—'Twopence more, and up goes the donkey!' Woman, I'm fair rolling in wealth.” He said it with a kind of exultation that brought to her face a look of fear and disapproval. “Don't, Dan, don't,” she cried—“don't brag of the world's dross; it's not like you. 'He that hasteth to be rich shall not be innocent,' says the Proverbs. You must be needing medicine. We should have humble hearts. How many that were high have had a fall!”

“Are you frightened God will hear me and me His bounty?” said the brother, in a whisper. “I'm not bragging; I'm just telling you.”

“I hope you're not hoarding it,” proceeded Miss Bell. “It's not wiselike—”

“Nor Dyce-like either,” said Miss Ailie.

“There's many a poor body in the town this winter that's needful.”

“I dare say,” said Daniel Dyce, coldly. “'The poor we have always with us.' The thing, they tell me, is decreed by Providence.”

“But Providence is not aye looking,” said Bell. “If that's what you're frightened for, I'll be your almoner.”

“It's their own blame, you may be sure, if they're poor. Improvidence and—and drink. I'll warrant they have their glass of ale every Saturday. What's ale? Is there any moral elevation in it? Its nutritive quality, I believe, is less than the tenth part of a penny loaf.”

“Oh, but the poor creatures!” sighed Miss Bell. “Possibly,” said Dan Dyce, “but every man must look after himself; and as you say, many a man well off has come down in the world. We should take no risks. I had Black the baker at me yesterday for £20 in loan to tide over some trouble with his flour merchant and pay an account to Miss Minto.”

“A decent man, with a wife and seven children,” said Miss Bell.

“Decent or not, he'll not be coming back borrowing from me in a hurry. I set him off with a flea in his lug.”

“We're not needing curtains,” said Miss Bell, hurriedly; “the pair we have are fine.”

Dan finished his breakfast that day with a smile, flicked the crumbs off his waistcoat, gave one uneasy glance at Ailie, and went off to business humming “There is a Happy Land.”

“Oh, dear me, I'm afraid he's growing a perfect miser,” moaned Bell, when she heard the door close behind him. “He did not use to be like that when he was younger and poorer. Money's like the toothache, a commanding thing.”

Ailie smiled. “If you went about as much as I do, Bell,” she said, “you would not be misled by Dan's pretences. And as for Black, the baker, I saw his wife in Miss Minto's yesterday buying boots for her children and a bonnet for herself. She called me Miss Ailie, an honor I never got from her in all my life before.”

“Do you think—do you think he gave Black the money?” said Bell, in a pleasant excitation.

“Of course he did. It's Dan's way to give it to some folk with a pretence of reluctance, for if he did not growl they would never be off his face! He's telling us about the lecture that accompanied it as a solace to our femininity. Women, you know, are very bad lenders, and dislike the practice in their husbands and brothers.”

“None of the women I know,” protested Bell. “They're just as free-handed as the men if they had it. I hope,” she added, anxiously, “that Dan got good security. Would it be a dear bonnet, now, that she was getting?”

Ailie laughed—a ridiculous sort of sister this; she only laughed.

Six times each lawful day Daniel Dyce went up and down the street between his house and the office at the windy corner opposite the Cross, the business day being divided by an interval of four hours to suit the mails. The town folk liked to see him passing; he gave the street an air of occupation and gayety, as if a trip had just come in with a brass band banging at the latest air. Going or coming he was apt to be humming a tune to himself as he went along with his hands in his outside pockets, and it was an unusual day when he did not stop to look in at a shop window or two on the way, though they never changed a feature once a month. To the shops he honored thus it was almost as good as a big turnover. Before him his dog went whirling and barking, a long alarm for the clerks to stop their game of Catch-the-Ten and dip their pens. There were few that passed him without some words of recognition.

He was coming down from the office on the afternoon of the Hansel Monday that started Bud in the Pigeons' Seminary when he met the nurse, old Betty Baxter, with a basket. She put it down at her feet, and bobbed a courtesy, a thing that nowadays you rarely see in Scotland.

“Tuts! woman,” he said to her, lifting the basket and putting it in her hand. “Why need you bother with the like of that? You and your courtesies! They're out of date, Miss Baxter, out of date, like the decent men that deserved them long ago, before my time.”

“No, they're not out of date, Mr. Dyce,” said she, “I'll aye be minding you about my mother; you'll be paid back some day.”

“Tuts!” said he again, impatient. “You're an awful blether: how's your patient, Duncan Gill?”

“As dour as the devil, sir,” said the nurse. “Still hanging on.”

“Poor man! poor man!” said Mr. Dyce. “He'll just have to put his trust in God.”

“Oh, he's no' so far through as all that,” said Betty Baxter. “He can still sit up and take his drop of porridge. They're telling me you have got a wonderful niece, Mr. Dyce, all the way from America. What a mercy for her! But I have not set eyes on her yet. I'm so busy that I could not stand in the close like the others, watching: what is she like?”

“Just like Jean Macrae,” said Mr. Dyce, preparing to move on.

“And what was Jean Macrae like?”

“Oh, just like other folk,” said Mr. Dyce, and passed on chuckling, to run almost into the arms of Captain Consequence.

“Have you heard the latest?” said Captain Consequence, putting his kid-gloved hand on the shoulder of the lawyer, who felt it like a lump of ice, for he did not greatly like the man, the smell of whose cigars, he said, before he knew they came from the Pilgrim widows, proved that he rose from the ranks.

“No, Captain Brodie,” he said, coldly. “Who's the rogue or the fool this time?” but the captain was too stupid to perceive it. He stared perplexedly.

“I hear,” said he, “the doctor's in a difficulty.”

“Is he—is he?” said Mr. Dyce. “That's a chance for his friends to stand by him.”

“Let him take it!” said Captain Consequence, puffing. “Did he not say to me once yonder, 'God knows how you're living.'”

“It must be God alone, for all the rest of us are wondering,” said Mr. Dyce, and left the man to put it in his pipe and smoke it.

Along the street came the two Miss Duffs, who kept the dame school, and he saw a hesitation in their manner when they realized a meeting was inevitable. If they had been folk that owed him anything he would not have wondered, from their manner, to see them tuck up their skirts and scurry down the lane. Twins they were—a tiny couple, scarcely young, dressed always in a douce long-lasting brown, something in their walk and color that made them look like pigeon hens, and long ago conferred on them that name in Daniel Dyce's dwelling. They met him in front of his own door, and seemed inclined to pass in a trepidation.

He took off his hat to them and stood, full of curiosity about Lennox.

“What a lovely winter day!” said Miss Jean, with an air of supplication, as if her very life depended on his agreement.

“Isn't it perfectly exquisite!” said Miss Amelia, who usually picked up the bald details of her sister's conversation and passed them on embroidered with a bit of style.

“It's not bad,” said Mr. Dyce, blinking at them, wondering what ailed the dears to-day. They were looking uneasily around them for some way of escape; he could almost hear the thump of their hearts, he noted the stress of their breathing. Miss Jean's eyes fastened on the tree-tops over the banker's garden-wall; he felt that in a moment she would spread out her wings and fly. “You have opened the school again,” he said, simply.

“We started again to-day,” cooed Miss Jean.

“Yes, we resumed to-day,” said Miss Amelia. “The common round, the daily task. And, oh! Mr. Dyce—”

She stopped suddenly at the pressure of her sister's elbow on her own, and lowered her eyes, that had for a second shown an appalling area of white. It was plain they were going to fly. Mr. Dyce felt inclined to cry “Pease, pease!” and keep them a little longer.

“You have my niece with you to-day?” he remarked. “What do you think of her?”

A look of terror exchanged between them escaped his observation.

“She's—she's a wonderful child,” said Miss Jean, nervously twisting the strings of a hand-bag.

“A singularly interesting and—and unexpected creature,” said Miss Amelia.

“Fairly bright, eh?” said Mr. Dyce.

“Oh, bright!” repeated Miss Jean. “Bright is not the word for it—is it, Amelia?”

“I would rather say brilliant,” said Amelia, coughing, and plucking a handkerchief out of her pocket to inhale its perfume and avert a threatening swound. “I hope—we both hope, Mr. Dyce, she will be spared to grow up a credit to you. One never knows?”

“That's it,” agreed Mr. Dyce, cheerfully. “Some girls grow up and become credits to their parents and guardians, others become reciters and spoil many a jolly party with 'The Women of Mumbles Head' or 'Coffee was not strong.'”

“I hope not,” said Miss Jean, hardly understanding: the painful possibility seemed to be too much for Miss Amelia; she said nothing, but fixed her eyes on the distant tree-tops and gave a little flap of the wings of her Inverness cape.

“Pease, pease!” murmured Mr. Dyce, unconsciously, anxious to hold them longer and talk about his niece.

“I beg pardon!” exclaimed Miss Jean, and the lawyer got very red.

“I hope at least you'll like Bud,” he said. “She's odd, but—but—but—” he paused for a word.

“—sincere,” suggested Miss Jean.

“Yes, I would say sincere—or perhaps outspoken would be better,” said Miss Amelia.

“So clever too,” added Miss Jean. “Pretematurally!” cooed Miss Amelia.

“Such a delightful accent,” said Miss Jean.

“Like linked sweetness long drawn out,” quoted Miss Amelia.

“But—” hesitated Miss Jean.

“Still—” more hesitatingly said her sister, and then there was a long pause.

“Oh, to the mischief!” said Mr. Dyce to himself, then took off his hat again, said, “Good-afternoon,” and turned to his door.

He was met by Ailie in the lobby; she had seen him from a window speaking to the Duffs. “What were they saying to you?” she asked, with more curiosity in her manner than was customary.

“Nothing at all,” said Mr. Dyce. “They just stood and cooed. I'm not sure that a doo-cot is the best place to bring up an eagle in. How did Bud get on with them at school to-day?”

“So far as I can make out, she did not get on at all; she seems to have demoralized the school, and driven the Misses Duff into hysterics, and she left of her own accord and came home an hour before closing-time. And—and she's not going back!”

Mr. Dyce stood a moment in amazement, then rubbed his hands gleefully. “I'm glad to hear it,” said he. “The poor birdies between them could not summon up courage to tell me what was wrong. I'm sorry for them; if she's not going back, we'll send them down a present.”