“Why not?” asked Mr Graham, with an inquiring smile. “Because the ocean sudna mak a mou’ at the puir earth-burnie that cudna help what ran intill ’t.” “It took it in though, and made it clean, for all the pain _it_ couldn’t help either.” “Weel, gien ye luik at it that gait!” said Malcolm. In the evening his grandfather came to see him, and sat down by his bedside, full of a tender anxiety which he was soon able to alleviate. “Wownded in ta hand and in ta foot!” said the seer: “what can it mean? It must mean something, Malcolm, my son.” “Weel, daddy, we maun jist bide till we see,” said Malcolm cheerfully. A little talk followed, in the course of which it came into Malcolm’s head to tell his grandfather the dream he had had so much of the first night he had slept in that room--but more for the sake of something to talk about that would interest one who believed in all kinds of prefigurations, than for any other reason. Duncan sat moodily silent for some time, and then, with a great heave of his broad chest, lifted up his head, like one who had formed a resolution, and said: “The hour has come. She has long peen afrait to meet it, put it has come, and Allister will meet it.--She’ll not pe your cran’father, my son.” He spoke the words with perfect composure, but as soon as they were uttered, burst into a wail, and sobbed like a child. “Ye’ll be my ain father than?” said Malcolm. “No, no, my son. She’ll not pe anything that’s your own at aal!” And the tears flowed down his channelled cheeks. For one moment Malcolm was silent, utterly bewildered. But he must comfort the old man first, and think about what he had said afterwards. “Ye’re my ain daddy, whatever ye are!” he said. “Tell me a’ aboot it, daddy.” “She’ll tell you all she’ll pe knowing, my son, and she nefer told a lie efen to a Cawmill.” He began his story in haste, as if anxious to have it over, but had to pause often from fresh outbursts of grief. It contained nothing more of the essential than I have already recorded, and Malcolm was perplexed to think why what he had known all the time should affect him so much in the telling. But when he ended with the bitter cry--“And now you’ll pe loving her no more, my poy: my chilt, my Malcolm!” he understood it. “Daddy! daddy!” he cried, throwing his arms round his neck and kissing him, “I lo’e ye better nor ever. An’ weel I may!” “But how can you, when you’ve cot none of ta plood in you, my son?” persisted Duncan. “I hae as muckle as ever I had, daddy.” “Yes, put you’ll tidn’t know.” “But ye did, daddy.” “Yes, and inteet she cannot tell why she’ll pe loving you so much herself aal ta time!” “Weel, daddy, gien ye cud lo’e me sae weel, kennin’ me nae bluid’s bluid o’ yer ain--I canna help it: I _maun_ lo’e ye mair nor ever, noo’ at I ken ’t tu.--Daddy, daddy, I had _nae_ claim upo’ ye, an’ ye hae been father an’ gran’father an’ a’ to me!”