“She’ll be hafing an efil tream, my son Malcolm,” he said; “or it was ’ll pe more than a tream. Cawmill of Clenlyon, Cod curse him! came to her pedside; and he’ll say to her, ‘MacDhonuill,’ he said, for pein’ a tead man he would pe knowing my name,--‘MacDhonuill,’ he said, ‘what tid you’ll pe meaning py turking my posterity?’ And she answered and said to him, ‘I pray it had peen yourself, you tamned Clenlyon.’ And he said to me, ‘It’ll pe no coot wishing tat; it would be toing you no coot to turk me, for I’m a tead man.’-- ‘And a tamned man,’ says herself, and would haf taken him py ta troat, put she couldn’t mofe. ‘Well, I’m not so sure of tat,’ says he, ‘for I’fe pecked all teir partons.’--‘And tid tey gif tem to you, you tog?’ says herself.--‘Well, I’m not sure,’ says he; ‘anyhow, I’m not tamned fery much yet.’--‘She’ll pe much sorry to hear it,’ says herself. And she took care aalways to pe calling him some paad name, so tat he shouldn’t say _she_ ’ll be forgifing him, whatever ta rest of tem might be toing. ‘Put what troubles me,’ says he, ‘it’ll not pe apout myself at aall.’--‘Tat’ll pe a wonter,’ says her nainsel: ‘and what may it pe apout, you cut-troat?’--‘It’ll pe apout yourself,’ says he. ‘Apout herself?’ --‘Yes; apout yourself,’ says he. ‘I’m sorry for you--for ta ting tat’s to pe tone with him tat killed a man aal pecaase he pore my name, and he wasn’t a son of mine at aall! Tere is no pot in hell teep enough to put him in!’--‘Ten tey must make haste and tig one,’ says herself; ‘for she’ll pe hangt in a tay or two.’--So she’ll wake up, and beholt it was a tream!” “An’ no sic an ill dream efter a’, daddy!” said Malcolm. “Not an efil tream, my son, when it makes her aalmost wish that she hadn’t peen quite killing ta tog! Last night she would haf made a puoy of his skin like any other tog’s skin, and to-tay--no, my son, it wass a fery efil tream. And to be tolt tat ta creat tefil, Clenlyon herself, was not fery much tamned!--it wass a fery efil tream, my son.” “Weel, daddy--maybe ye’ll tak it for ill news, but ye killed naebody.” “Tid she’ll not trive her turk into ta tog?” cried Duncan fiercely. “Och hone! och hone!--Then she’s ashamed of herself for efer, when she might have tone it. And it’ll hafe to be tone yet!” He paused a few moments, and then resumed: “And she’ll not pe coing to be hangt?--Maype tat will pe petter, for you wouldn’t hafe liket to see your olt cranfather to pe hangt, Malcolm, my son. Not tat she would hafe minted it herself in such a coot caause, Malcolm! Put she tidn’t pe fery happy after she tid think she had tone it, for you see he wasn’t ta fery man his ownself, and tat must pe counted. But she tid kill something: what was it, Malcolm?” “Ye sent a gran’ dish fleein’,” answered Malcolm. “I s’ warran’ it cost a poun’, to jeedge by the gowd upo’ ’t.” “She’ll hear a noise of preaking; put she tid stap something soft.”