"My brother and I, we never hit it off, somehow. So when my father died
I cleared. You don't remember his funeral, I suppose? No, no--that was
before your time. They hung the church all over with black
broadcloth of the best. That was the way in those days, and the cloth
was the parson's perquisite. The funeral hangings used to keep him in
coats and trousers. And they used to deal out long silk hat-scarves to
all the mourners--silk that would stand alone, as they say--and the
wives made mantles and aprons of them. They went down from mother to
daughter, like the best china and family spoons. That's how women took
care of their clothes when I was young. They didn't want new frocks and
fallals every week, like some folks I could name." And he pinched his
daughter's ear.

"Talk to Deb, father," said Mary. "I have not had a new frock for a
great many weeks."

"Aye, Deb's the one! That girl's got to marry a millionaire, or I don't
know where she'll be."

Almost Mrs Urquhart's words! And, like hers, they pricked sharply into
the feelings of our young man. His eyes went a-roaming once more, to
discover the white gown afar off, trailing unheeded along a dusty
garden path. The old man saw it too, and his genial countenance clouded
over.

"Well," he continued, after a thoughtful pause, "poor old Billy Dalzell
and I, we emigrated together. He had a devil of a stepfather, and no
home to speak of. We were mates at school, and we made up our minds to
start out for ourselves. You remember the Dalzells of the Grange, of