Confused as these memories were, they blended with an equal confusion of feelings.  Love, anger, regret, fear, perplexity, condemnation, excuse, followed close on each other, and John’s mind, though remarkably clear and acute, was one trained rather to the consideration of things point by point than to the catching of the proper clew in a mental labyrinth.  After an hour’s miserable uncertainty he was still in doubt what to do.  The one point of comfort he had been able to reach was the hope that David had gone straight to Jenny with his grievance.  “And though women-folk arena much as counsellors,” thought John, “they are wonderfu’ comforters; and Jenny will ne’er hear tell o’ his leaving the house; sae there will be time to put right what is wrong.”

But though David had always hitherto, when lessons were hard or lassies scornful, gone with his troubles to the faithful Jenny, he did not do so at this time.  He did not even bid her “Good-night,” and there was such a look on his face that she considered it prudent not to challenge the omission.

“It will be either money or marriage,” she thought.  “If it be money, the deacon has mair than is good for him to hae; if it be marriage, it will be Isabel Strang, and that the deacon wont like.  But it is his ain wife Davie is choosing, and I am for letting the lad hae the lass he likes best.”

Jenny had come to these conclusions in ten minutes, but she waited patiently for an hour before she interrupted her master.  Then the clock struck midnight, and she felt herself aggrieved.  “Deacon,” she said sharply, “ye should mak the day day and the night night, and ye would if ye had a three weeks’ ironing to do the morn.  It has chappit twelve, sir.”

“Jenny, I’m not sleeplike to-night.  There hae been ill words between David and me.”

“And I am mair than astonished at ye, deacon.  Ye are auld enough to ken that ill words canna be wiped out wi’ a sponge.  Our Davie isna an ordinar lad; he can be trusted where the lave would need a watcher.  Ye ken that, deacon, for he is your ain bringing up.”

“But, Jenny, L2,000 for his share o’ Hastie’s mill!  Surely ye didna encourage the lad in such an idea?”

“Oh, sae it’s money,” thought Jenny.  “What is L2,000 to you, deacon?  Why should you be sparing and saving money to die wi’?  The lad isna a fool.”

“I dinna approve o’ the partner that is seeking him, Jenny.  I hae heard things anent Robert Leslie that I dinna approve of; far from it.”

“Hae ye seen anything wrong?”

“I canna say I hae.”

“Trust to your eyes, deacon; they believe themselves, and your ears believe other people; ye ken which is best.  His father was a decent body.”

“Ay, ay; but Alexander Leslie was different from his son Robert.  He was a canny, cautious man, who could ding for his ain side, and who always stood by the kirk.  Robert left Dr. Morrison’s soon after his father died.  The doctor was too narrow for Robert Leslie.  Robert Leslie has wonderfu’ broad ideas about religion now.  Jenny, I dinna like the men who are their ain Bibles and ministers.”