“Ay,” answered the child, without looking up. The manner was not courteous, but her voice was gentle and sweet. “What are ye doin’ there?” he asked. “Makin’ a string o’ beads, to weir at aunty’s merriage.” “What are ye makin’ them o’?” he went on. “Haddicks’ een.” “Are they a’ haddicks’?” “Na, there’s some cods’ amo’ them; but they’re maistly haddicks’. I pikes them oot afore they’re sautit, an’ biles them; an’ syne I polish them i’ my han’s till they’re rale bonny.” “Can ye tell me onything aboot the mad laird, Phemy?” asked Malcolm, in his anxiety too abruptly. “Ye can gang an’ speir at my father: he’s oot aboot,” she answered, with a sort of marked coolness, which, added to the fact that she had never looked him in the face, made him more than suspect something behind. “Div ye ken onything aboot him?” he therefore insisted. “Maybe I div, an’ maybe I divna,” answered the child, with an expression of determined mystery. “Ye’ll tell me whaur ye _think_ he is, Phemy?” “Na, I winna.” “What for no?” “Ow, jist for fear ye sud ken.” “But I’m a freen’ till him.” “Ye may think ay, an’ the laird may think no.” “Does he think _you_ a freen’, Phemy?” asked Malcolm, in the hope of coming at something by widening the sweep of the conversation. “Ay, he _kens_ I’m a freen’,” she replied. “An’ do ye aye ken whaur he is?” “Na, no aye. He gangs here an’ he gangs there--jist as he likes. It’s whan _naebody_ kens whaur he is, that I ken, an’ gang till him.” “Is he i’ the hoose?” “Na, he’s no i’ the hoose.” “Whaur is he than, Phemy?” said Malcolm coaxingly. “There’s ill fowk aboot ’at’s efter deein’ him an ill turn.” “The mair need no to tell!” retorted Phemy. “But I want to tak care ’o ’im. Tell me whaur he is, like a guid lassie, Phemy.” “I’m no sure. I may say I dinna ken.” “Ye say ye ken whan ither fowk disna: noo naebody kens.” “Hoo ken ye that?” “’Cause he’s run awa.” “Wha frae? His mither?” “Na, na; frae Miss Horn.” “I ken naething aboot _her_; but gien naebody kens, I ken whaur he is weel eneuch.” “Whaur than? Ye’ll be duin’ him a guid turn to tell me.” “Whaur I winna tell, an’ whaur you nor nae ither body s’ get him. An’ ye needna speir, for it wadna be richt to tell; an’ gien ye gang on speirin’, you an’ me winna be lang freen’s.” As she spoke, the child looked straight up into his face with wide-opened blue eyes, as truthful as the heavens, and Malcolm dared not press her, for it would have been to press her to do wrong. “Ye wad tell yer father, wadna ye?” he said kindly. “My father wadna speir. My father’s a guid man.” “Weel, Phemy, though ye winna trust _me_--supposin’ I was to trust _you_?” “Ye can du that gien ye like.” “An’ ye winna tell?” “I s’ mak nae promises. It’s no trustin’, to gar me promise.” “Weel, I wull trust ye.--Tell the laird to haud weel oot o’ sicht for a whilie.” “He’ll du that,” said Phemy.