“What could she do, Malcolm, my poy? Ta chilt had no one, and she had no one, and so it wass. You must pe her own poy after all!--And she’ll not pe wondering put----It might pe----Yes, inteed not!” His voice sank to the murmurs of a half-uttered soliloquy, and as he murmured he stroked Malcolm’s cheek. “What are ye efter noo daddy?” asked Malcolm. The only sign that Duncan heard the question was the complete silence that followed. When Malcolm repeated it, he said something in Gaelic, but finished the sentence thus, apparently unaware of the change of language: “--only how else should she pe lovin you so much, Malcolm, my son?” “I ken what Maister Graham would say, daddy,” rejoined Malcolm, at a half-guess. “What would he say, my son? He’s a coot man, your Maister Graham. --It could not pe without ta sem fathers, and ta sem chief.” “He wad say it was ’cause we war a’ o’ ae bluid--’cause we had a’ ae father.” “Oh yes, no toubt! We aal come from ta same first paarents; put tat will be a fery long way off, pefore ta clans cot tokether. It’ll not pe holding fery well now, my son. Tat waas pefore ta Cawmills.” “That’s no what Maister Graham would mean, daddy,” said Malcolm. “He would mean that God was the father o’ ’s a’, and sae we cudna help lo’in’ ane anither.” “No; tat cannot pe right, Malcolm; for then we should haf to love eferybody. Now she loves you, my son, and she hates Cawmill of Clenlyon. She loves Mistress Partan when she’ll not pe too rude to her, and she hates tat Mistress Catanach. She’s a paad woman, o’ tat she’ll pe certain sure, though she’ll nefer saw her to speak to her. She’ll haf claaws to her poosoms.” “Weel, daddy, there was naething ither to gar ye lo’e me. I was jist a helpless human bein’, an’ sae for that, an’ nae ither rizzon, ye tuik a’ that fash wi’ me! An’ for mysel’, I’m deid sure I cudna lo’e ye better gien ye war twise my gran’father.” “He’s her own poy!” cried the piper, much comforted; and his hand sought his head, and lighted gently upon it. “Put, maype,” he went on, “she might not haf loved you so much if she hadn’t peen tinking sometimes----” He checked himself. Malcolm’s questions brought no conclusion to the sentence, and a long silence followed. “Supposin’ I was to turn oot a Cawmill?” said Malcolm, at length. The hand that was fondling his curls withdrew as if a serpent had bit it, and Duncan rose from his chair. “Wass it her own son to pe speaking such an efil thing?” he said, in a tone of injured and sad expostulation. “For onything ye ken, daddy--ye canna tell but it _mith_ be.” “Ton’t preathe it, my son!” cried Duncan in a voice of agony, as if he saw unfolding a fearful game the arch enemy had been playing for his soul.--“Put it cannot pe,” he resumed instantly, “for ten how should she pe loving you, my son?” “’Cause ye was in for that afore ye kent wha the puir beastie was.”