oyster-knife out, and this time the man really went away.

"Hairtless mon!" cried she, "could he no do his am dirrty work, and no
gar me gie the puir lad th' action, and he likeit me sae weel!" and she
began to whimper.

"And love you more now," said he; "don't you cry, dear, to add to my
vexation."

"Na! I'll no add to your vexation," and she gulped down her tears.

"Besides, I have pictures painted worth two hundred pounds; this is only
for eighty. To be sure you can't sell them for two hundred pence when you
want. So I shall go to jail, but they won't keep me long.

Then he took a turn, and began to fall into the artistic, or true view of
matters, which, indeed, was never long absent from him.

"Look here, Christie," said he, "I am sick of conventional assassins,
humbugging models, with dirty beards, that knit their brows, and try to
look murder; they never murdered so much as a tom-cat. I always go in for
the real thing, and here I shall find it."

"Dinna gang in there, lad, for ony favor."

"Then I shall find the accessories of a picture I have in my head--chains
with genuine rust and ancient mouldering stones with the stains of time."
His eye brightened at the prospect.

"You among fiefs, and chains, and stanes! Ye'll break my hairt, laddy,