had pitten on a clean sark, an' washen my face. But I s' jist gang
ower to the barber's an' get a scrape, an' maybe some o' them 'ill
be here or I come back."

Mistress Croale knew perfectly that there was no clean shirt in
George's garret. She knew also that the shirt he then wore, which
probably, in consideration of her maid's festered hand, she would
wash for him herself, was one of her late husband's which she had
given him. But George's speech was one of those forms of sound
words held fast by all who frequented Mistress Croale's parlour, and
by herself estimated at more than their worth.

The woman had a genuine regard for Galbraith. Neither the character
nor fate of one of the rest gave her a moment's trouble; but in her
secret mind she deplored that George should drink so inordinately,
and so utterly neglect his child as to let him spend his life in the
streets. She comforted herself, however, with the reflection, that
seeing he would drink, he drank with no bad companions -- drank at all
events where what natural wickedness might be in them, was
suppressed by the sternness of her rule. Were he to leave her
fold -- for a fold in very truth, and not a sty, it appeared to
her -- and wander away to Jock Thamson's or Jeemie Deuk's, he would be
drawn into loud and indecorous talk, probably into quarrel and
uproar.

In a few minutes George returned, an odd contrast visible between
the upper and lower halves of his face. Hearing his approach she
met him at the door.

"Noo, Sir George," she said, "jist gang up to my room an' hae a