“Well, you see, my laty, her father was out in the forty-five, and fought ta red-coats at Culloden. Tat’s his claymore on ta wall there--a coot plade--though she’s not an Andrew Ferrara. She wass forched in Clenco, py a cousin of her own, Angus py name, and she’s a fery coot plade: she’ll can well whistle ta pibroch of Ian Lom apout ta ears of ta Sassenach. Her crandfather wass with his uncle in ta pattle of Killiecrankie after Tundee--a creat man, my laty, and he died there; and so tid her cranduncle, for a fillain of a Mackay, from Lord Reay’s cursed country--where they aalways wass repels, my laty--chust as her uncle was pe cutting town ta wicket Cheneral Mackay, turned him round, without gifing no warnings, and killed ta poor man at won plow.” “But what has it all to do with your name? I declare I don’t know what to call you.” “Call her your own pard, old Tuncan MacPhail, my sweet laty, and haf ta patience with her, and she’ll pe telling you aall apout eferyting, only you must gif her olt prains time to tumple temselfs apout. Her head grows fery stupid.--Yes, as she was saying, after ta ploody massacre at Culloden, her father had to hide himself away out of sight, and to forge himself--I mean to put upon himself a name tat tidn’t mean himself at aal. And my poor mother, who pored me--pig old Tuncan--ta fery tay of ta pattle, would not be hearing won wort of him for tree months tat he was away; and when he would pe creep pack like a fox to see her one fine night when ta moon was not pe up, they’ll make up an acreement to co away together for a time, and to call temselfs MacPhails. But py and py tey took teir own nems again.” “And why haven’t you your own name now? I’m sure it’s a much prettier name.” “Pecause she’ll pe taking the other, my tear laty.” “And why?” “Pecause--pecause----. She will tell you another time. She’ll pe tired to talk more apout ta cursed Cawmills this fery tay.” “Then Malcolm’s name is not MacPhail either?” “No, it is not, my laty.” “Is he your son’s son, or your daughter’s son?” “Perhaps not, my laty.” “I want to know what his real name is. Is it the same as yours? It doesn’t seem respectable not to have your own names.” “Oh yes, my laty, fery respectable. Many coot men has to porrow nems of teir neighpours. We’ve all cot our fery own names, only in pad tays, my laty, we ton’t aalways know which tey are exactly; but we aal know which we are each other, and we get on fery coot without the names. We lay tem py with our Sappath clothes for a few tays, and they come out ta fresher and ta sweeter for keeping ta Sappath so long, my laty. And now she’ll pe playing you ta coronach of Clenco, which she was make herself for her own pipes.” “I want to know first what Malcolm’s real name is,” persisted Lady Florimel. “Well, you see, my laty,” returned Duncan, “some people has names and does not know them; and some people hasn’t names, and will pe supposing they haf.”