“Ta tarling chilt! she could _not_ haf loved him if he had peen a Cawmill. Her soul would haf chumped pack from him as from ta snake in ta tree. Ta hate in her heart to ta plood of ta Cawmill, would have killed ta chilt of ta Cawmill plood. No, Malcolm! no, my son!” “Ye wadna hae me believe, daddy, that gien ye had kent by mark o’ hiv (_hoof_) an’ horn, that the cratur they laid i’ yer lap was a Cawmill--ye wad hae risen up, an’ lootin it lie whaur it fell?” “No, Malcolm; I would haf put my foot upon it, as I would on ta young fiper in ta heather.” “Gien I _was_ to turn oot ane o’ that ill race, ye wad hate me, than, daddy--efter a’! Ochone, daddy! Ye wad be weel pleased to think hoo ye stack yer durk throu’ the ill han’ o’ me, an’ wadna rist till ye had it throu’ the waur hert.--I doobt I had better up an’ awa’, daddy, for wha’ kens what ye mayna du to me?” Malcolm made a movement to rise, and Duncan’s quick ears understood it. He sat down again by his bedside and threw his arms over him. “Lie town, lie town, my poy. If you ket up, tat will pe you are a Cawmill. No, no, my son! You are ferry cruel to your own old daddy. She would pe too much sorry for her poy to hate him. It will pe so treadful to pe a Cawmill! No, no, my poy! She would take you to her poosom, and tat would trive ta Cawmill out of you. Put ton’t speak of it any more, my son, for it cannot pe.--She must co now, for her pipes will pe waiting for her.” Malcolm feared he had ventured too far, for never before had his grandfather left him except for work. But the possibility he had started might do something to soften the dire endurance of his hatred. His thoughts turned to the new darkness let in upon his history and prospects. All at once the cry of the mad laird rang in his mind’s ear: “I dinna ken whaur I cam frae!” Duncan’s revelation brought with it nothing to be done--hardly anything to be _thought_--merely room for most shadowy, most unfounded conjecture--nay, not conjecture--nothing but the vaguest of castle-building! In merry mood, he would henceforth be the son of some mighty man, with a boundless future of sunshine opening before him; in sad mood, the son of some strolling gipsy or worse--his very origin better forgotten--a disgrace to the existence for his share in which he had hitherto been peacefully thankful. Like a lurking phantom-shroud, the sad mood leaped from the field of his speculation, and wrapped him in its folds: sure enough he was but a beggar’s brat--How henceforth was he to look Lady Florimel in the face? Humble as he had believed his origin, he had hitherto been proud of it: with such a high-minded sire as he deemed his own, how could he be other? But now! Nevermore could he look one of his old companions in the face! They were all honourable men; he a base-born foundling! He would tell Mr Graham of course; but what could Mr Graham say to it? The fact remained. He must leave Portlossie.