Thoroughly exhausted by his late fierce emotions, Duncan soon fell into a troubled sleep, whereupon Malcolm went to Meg Partan, and begged her to watch beside him until he should return, informing her of the way his grandfather had been treated, and adding that he had gone into such a rage, that he feared he would be ill in consequence; and if he should be unable to do his morning’s duty, it would almost break his heart. “Eh!” said the Partaness, in a whisper, as they parted at Duncan’s door, “a baad temper ’s a frichtsome thing. I’m sure the times I hae telled him it wad be the ruin o’ ’im!” To Malcolm’s gentle knock Miss Horn’s door was opened by Jean. “What d’ye wint at sic an oontimeous hoor,” she said, “whan honest fowk’s a’ i’ their nicht-caips?” “I want to see Miss Horn, gien ye please,” he answered. “I s’ warran’ she’ll be in her bed an’ snorin’,” said Jean; “but I s’ gang an’ see.” Ere she went, however, Jean saw that the kitchen door was closed, for, whether she belonged to the class “honest folk” or not, Mrs Catanach was in Miss Horn’s kitchen, and not in her nightcap. Jean returned presently with an invitation for Malcolm to walk up to the parlour. “I hae gotten a sma’ mishanter, Miss Horn,” he said, as he entered: “an I thocht I cudna du better than come to you, ’cause ye can haud yer tongue, an’ that’s mair nor mony ane the port o’ Portlossie can, mem.” The compliment, correct in fact as well as honest in intent, was not thrown away on Miss Horn, to whom it was the more pleasing that she could regard it as a just tribute. Malcolm told her all the story, rousing thereby a mighty indignation in her bosom, a great fire in her hawk-nose, and a succession of wild flashes in her hawk-eyes; but when he showed her his hand, “Lord, Malcolm!” she cried; “it’s a mercy I was made wantin’ feelin’s, or I cudna hae bed the sicht. My puir bairn!” Then she rushed to the stair and shouted,-- “Jean, ye limmer! Jean! Fess some het watter, an’ some linen cloots.” “I hae nane o’ naither,” replied Jean from the bottom of the stair. “Mak up the fire an’ put on some watter direckly.--I s’ fin’ some clooties,” she added, turning to Malcolm, “--gien I sud rive the tail frae my best Sunday sark.” She returned with rags enough for a small hospital, and until the grumbling Jean brought the hot water, they sat and talked in the glimmering light of one long-beaked tallow candle. “It’s a terrible hoose, yon o’ Lossie,” said Miss Horn; “and there’s been terrible things dune intill ’t. The auld markis was an ill man. I daurna say what he wadna hae dune, gien half the tales be true ’at they tell o’ ’im; an’ the last ane was little better. This ane winna be sae ill, but it’s clear ’at he’s tarred wi’ the same stick.”