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 wash, an' pit on the sark ye'll see lyin' upo' the bed; syne come doon an' hae yer tum'ler comfortable." George's whole soul was bent upon his drink, but he obeyed as if she had been twice his mother.

By the time he had finished his toilet, the usual company was assembled, and he appeared amongst them in all the respectability of a clean shirt and what purity besides the general adhesiveness of his trade-material would yield to a single ablution long delayed.