“That’s jist what I dinna ken, mem,” retorted Malcolm. “Luik ye here, mem,” he continued, rousing himself to venture an appeal to the mother’s heart; “--here’s a man it has pleased God to mak no freely like ither fowk. His min’, though cawpable a hantle mair nor a body wad think ’at didna ken him sae weel as I du, is certainly weyk--though maybe the weykness lies mair i’ the tongue than i’ the brain o’ ’im efter a’--an’ he’s been sair frichtit wi’ some guideship or ither; the upshot o ’t a’ bein’, ’at he’s unco timoursome, and ready to bursten himsel’ rinnin’ whan there’s nane pursuin’. But he’s the gentlest o’ craturs--a doon-richt gentleman, mem, gien ever there was ane--an’ _that_ kin’ly wi’ a’ cratur, baith man an’ beast! A verra bairn cud guide him--ony gait but ane.” “Anywhere but to his mother!” exclaimed Mrs Stewart, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes, and sobbing as she spoke. “--There is a child he is very fond of, I am told,” she added, recovering herself. “He likes a’ bairns,” returned Malcolm, “an’ they’re maistly a’ freen’ly wi’ him. But there’s but jist ae thing ’at maks life endurable till ’im. He suffers a hantle (_a great deal_) wi’ that puir back o’ his, an’ wi’ his breath tu whan he’s frichtit, for his hert gangs loupin’ like a sawmon in a bag-net. An’ he suffers a hantle, forbye, in his puir feeble min’ tryin’ to unnerstan’ the guid things ’at fowk tells him, an’ jaloosin’ it’s his ain wyte ’at he disna unnerstan’ them better, an’ whiles he thinks himsel’ the child o’ sin and wrath, an’ that Sawtan has some special propriety in him, as the carritchis says--” “But,” interrupted the lady hurriedly, “you were going to tell me the one comfort he has.” “It’s his leeberty, mem--jist his leeberty; to gang whaur he lists like the win’; to turn his face whaur he wull i’ the mornin’, an’ back again at nicht gien he likes; to wan’er----” “Back _where_?” interrupted the mother, a little too eagerly. “Whaur he likes, mem--I cudna say whaur wi’ ony certainty. But aih! he likes to hear the sea moanin’, an’ watch the stars sheenin’! --There’s a sicht o’ oondevelopit releegion in him, as Maister Graham says; an’ I div _not_ believe ’at the Lord’ll see him wranged mair nor’s for ’s guid. But it’s my belief, gien ye took the leeberty frae the puir cratur, ye wad kill him.” “Then you won’t help me!” she cried despairingly. “They tell me you are an orphan yourself--and yet you will not take pity on a childless mother!--worse than childless, for I had the loveliest boy once--he would be about your age now, and I have never had any comfort in life since I lost him. Give me my son, and I will bless you--love you.” As she spoke she rose, and approaching him gently, laid a hand on his shoulder. Malcolm trembled, but stood his mental ground.