David was shocked and grieved at his companion’s passion.  “James,” he said solemnly, “dinna mak a fool o’ yoursel’.  I hae long seen your ill-will at Donald.  Let it go.  Donald’s aboon your thumb now, and the anger o’ a poor man aye falls on himsel’.”

“For God’s sake don’t tempt me farther.  You little know what I could do if I had the ill heart to do it.”

“Ow! ay!” said David scornfully, “if the poor cat had only wings it would extirpate the race of sparrows from the world; but when the wings arena there, James lad, it is just as weel to mak no boast o’ them.”

James had leaned his head in his hands, and was whispering, “Christine!  Christine!  Christine!” in a rapid inaudible voice.  He took no notice of David’s remark, and David was instantly sorry for it.  “The puir lad is just sorrowful wi’ love for Christine, and that’s nae sin that I can see,” he thought.  “James,” he said kindly, “I am sorry enough to grieve you.  Come as soon as you can like to do it.  You’ll be welcome.”

James slightly nodded his head, but did not move; and David left him alone in the little boarded room where they had eaten.  In a few minutes he collected himself, and, like one dazed, walked back to his place in the bank.  Never had its hours seemed so long, never had the noise and traffic, the tramping of feet, and the banging of doors seemed so intolerable.  As early as possible he was at David’s, and David, with that fine instinct that a kind heart teaches, said as he entered, “Gude evening, James.  Gae awa ben and keep Christine company.  I’m that busy that I’ll no shut up for half an hour yet.”

James found Christine in her usual place.  The hearth had been freshly swept, the fire blazed brightly, and she sat before it with her white seam in her hand.  She raised her eyes at James’ entrance, and smilingly nodded to a vacant chair near her.  He took it silently.  Christine seemed annoyed at his silence in a little while, and asked, “Why don’t you speak, James?  Have you nothing to say?”

“A great deal, Christine.  What now do you think of Donald McFarlane?”

“I think well of Donald.”

“And of his marriage also?”

“Certainly I do.  When he was here I saw how unfit I was to be his wife.  I told him so, and bid him seek a mate more suitable to his position and prospects.”

“Do you think it right to let yonder lady wed such a man with her eyes shut?”

“Are you going to open them?” Her face was sad and mournful, and she laid her hand gently on James’ shoulder.

“I think it is my duty, Christine.”

“Think again, James.  Be sure it is your duty before you go on such an errand.  See if you dare kneel down and ask God to bless you in this duty.”

“Christine, you treat me very hardly.  You know how I love you, and you use your power over me unmercifully.”

“No, no, James, I only want you to keep yourself out of the power of Satan.  If indeed I have any share in your heart, do not wrong me by giving Satan a place there also.  Let me at least respect you, James.”