“Hoots! Nane o’ yer clavers! Ye ken weel eneuch what I mean--as weel ’s ilka ither creatit sowl o’ Portlossie. An’ gien ye dinna chowse to lat on aboot it till an auld freen’ cause she’s naething but a fisher-wife, it’s dune ye mair skaith a’ready nor I thocht it wad to the lang last, Ma’colm--for it’s yer ain name I s’ ca’ ye yet, gien ye war ten times a laird!--didna I gie ye the breist whan ye cud du naething i’ the wardle but sowk?--An’ weel ye sowkit, puir innocent ’at ye _was_!” “As sure ’s we’re baith alive,” asseverated Malcolm, “I ken nae mair nor a sawtit herrin’ what ye’re drivin’ at.” “Tell me ’at ye dinna ken what a’ the queentry kens--an’ hit aboot yer ain sel’!” screamed the Partaness. “I tell ye I ken naething; an’ gien ye dinna tell me what ye’re efter direckly, I s’ haud awa’ to Mistress Allison--_she_ ’ll tell me.” This was a threat sufficiently prevailing. “It’s no in natur’!” she cried. “Here’s Mistress Stewart o’ the Gersefell been cawin’ (_driving_) like mad aboot the place, in her cairriage an’ hoo mony horse I dinna ken, declarin’, ay, sweirin’, they tell me, ’at ane cowmonly ca’d Ma’colm MacPhail is neither mair nor less nor the son born o’ her ain body in honest wadlock! --an’ tell me _ye_ ken naething aboot it!--What are ye stan’in’ like that for--as gray-mou’d ’s a deein’ skate?” For the first time in his life, Malcolm, young and strong as he was, felt sick. Sea and sky grew dim before him, and the earth seemed to reel under him. “I dinna believe ’t,” he faltered--and turned away. “Ye dinna believe what I tell ye!” screeched the wrathful Partaness. “Ye daur to say the word!” But Malcolm did not care to reply. He wandered away, half unconscious of where he was, his head hanging, and his eyes creeping over the ground. The words of the woman kept ringing in his ears; but ever and anon, behind them as it were in the depth of his soul, he heard the voice of the mad laird, with its one lamentation: “I dinna ken whaur I cam’ frae.” Finding himself at length at Mr Graham’s door, he wondered how he had got there. It was Saturday afternoon, and the master was in the churchyard. Startled by Malcolm’s look, he gazed at him in grave silent enquiry. “Hae ye h’ard the ill news, sir?” said the youth. “No; I’m sorry to hear there is any.” “They tell me Mistress Stewart’s rinnin’ aboot the toon claimin’ me!” “Claiming you!--How do you mean?” “For her ain!” “Not for her son?” “Ay, sir--that’s what they say. But ye haena h’ard o’ ’t?” “Not a word.” “Then I believe it’s a’ havers!” cried Malcolm energetically. “It was sair eneuch upo’ me a’ready to ken less o’ whaur I cam frae than the puir laird himsel’; but to come frae whaur he cam frae, was a thocht ower sair!” “You don’t surely despise the poor fellow so much as to scorn to have the same parents with him!” said Mr Graham.