Eliza’s shrewd eyes twinkled.

“You work hard, don’t you, my dear?” she observed drily.

Nan laughed, colouring a little.

“Perhaps I should work harder if Uncle David didn’t spoil me so.  You know he’s increased my allowance lately?”

Eliza snorted indignantly.

“I always kent he was mair fulish than maist o’ his sex.”

“It’s rather an endearing kind of foolishness,” remarked Sandy.

His mother eyed him sharply.

“We’re not put into the world to be endearing,” she retorted, “but to do our duty.”

“It might be possible to combine both,” suggested Sandy.

“Well, you’re not the one to do it,” she answered grimly.  “And what’s Penelope doing?” she continued, turning to Nan.  “She’s more sense than the rest of ye put together, for all she’s so daft about music.”

“Penelope,” said Sandy solemnly, “is preparing to enter upon the duties and privileges of matrimony.”

“What may you mean by that?”

Sandy stirred his tea while Eliza waited impatiently for his answer.

“She’s certainly ‘walking out,’” he maintained.

“And that’s by no means the shortest road to matrimony,” snapped Eliza.  “My cook’s been walking out with the village carpenter ever since she came to St. Wennys, but she’s no nearer a wedding ring than she was twelve months ago.”

“I think,” observed Sandy gravely, “that greater success will attend Penelope’s perambulations.  Kitty was so cock-a-hoop over it that she couldn’t refrain from ’phoning the good news on Sunday morning.  I meant to tell you when you came back from church, but clean forgot.”

“And who’s the man?”

“Penelope’s young man?  Oh, Ralph Fenton, the fellow who makes ‘pleasuring’ pay so uncommonly well.  He’s been occupying an ignominious position at the wheels of Penelope’s chariot ever since they both came to Mallow.  I think Kitty Seymour would make a matrimonial agent par excellence—­young men and maidens introduced under the most favourable circumstances and no fee when suited!”—­Sandy flourished his arms expressively.

“And if she could find a good, sensible lassie to tak’ ye in hand, Sandy McBain, I’d no be grudgin’ a fee.”

“No good, mother of mine.  I lost my heart to Nan here too long ago, and now”—­with a lightness of tone that effectually concealed his feelings—­“not to be outdone by Penny, she herself has gone and got engaged.  So I shall live and die alone.”

“And what like is the man ye’ve chosen?” demanded Eliza, turning to Nan.  “Not another of these music-daft creatures, I hope?”

“I think you’ll quite approve, Aunt Eliza,” answered Nan with a becoming meekness.  “I’m engaged to marry Roger Trenby.”

“Well, I hope ye’ll be happier than maist o’ the married folks I ken.  Eh!”—­with a chuckle—­“but Roger’s picked a stick for his own back!”