“She’ll pe fery clad to see ta ponny young laty, and she’s creatly obleeched for ta honour: put if ta ponny young laty will pe excusing her--what’ll pe hurting your hand, Malcolm?” “I’ll tell ye efterhin, daddy. This is my Leddy Florimel, frae the Hoose.” “Hm!” said Duncan, the pain of his insult keenly renewed by the mere mention of the scene of it. “Put,” he went on, continuing aloud the reflections of a moment of silence, “she’ll pe a laty, and it’s not to pe laid to her charch. Sit town, my laty. Ta poor place is your own.” But Lady Florimel was already seated, and busy in her mind as to how she could best enter on the object of her visit. The piper sat silent, revolving a painful suspicion with regard to Malcolm’s hurt. “So you won’t forgive my father, Mr MacPhail?” said Lady Florimel. “She would forgife any man put two men,” he answered, “--Clenlyon, and ta man, whoefer he might pe, who would put upon her ta tiscrace of trinking in his company.” “But you’re quite mistaken,” said Lady Florimel, in a pleading tone. “I don’t believe my father knows the gentleman you speak of.” “Chentleman!” echoed Duncan. “He is a tog!--No, he is no tog: togs is coot. He is a mongrel of a fox and a volf!” “There was no Campbell at our table that evening,” persisted Lady Florimel. “Ten who tolt Tuncan MacPhail a lie?” “It was nothing but a joke--indeed!” said the girl, beginning to feel humiliated. “It wass a paad choke, and might have peen ta hanging of poor Tuncan,” said the piper. Now Lady Florimel had heard a rumour of some one having been hurt in the affair of the joke, and her quick wits instantly brought that and Malcolm’s hand together. “It might have been,” she said, risking a miss for the advantage. “It _was_ well that you hurt nobody but your own grandson.” “Oh, my leddy!” cried Malcolm with despairing remonstrance; “--an’ me haudin’ ’t frae him a’ this time! Ye sud ha’ considert an auld man’s feelin’s! He’s as blin’ ’s a mole, my leddy!” “His feelings!” retorted the girl angrily. “He ought to know the mischief he does in his foolish rages.” Duncan had risen, and was now feeling his way across the room. Having reached his grandson, he laid hold of his head and pressed it to his bosom. “Malcolm!” he said, in a broken and hollow voice, not to be recognized as his, “Malcolm, my eagle of the crag! my hart of the heather! was it yourself she stapped with her efil hand, my son? Tid she’ll pe hurting her own poy!--She’ll nefer wear turk more. Och hone! Och hone!” He turned, and, with bowed head seeking his chair, seated himself and wept. Lady Florimel’s anger vanished. She was by his side in a moment, with her lovely young hand on the bony expanse of his, as it covered his face. On the other side, Malcolm laid his lips to his ear, and whispered with soothing expostulation,-- “It’s maist as weel ’s ever daddy. It’s nane the waur. It was but a bit o’ a scart. It’s nae worth twise thinkin’ o’.”