“There’s a heap o’ things an ’uman like me,” she said at length, “canna un’erstan’. I didna ken whether some fowk mair nor preten’ to un’erstan’ them. But set Sandy Graham doon upo’ ae side, an’ the presbytery doon upo’ the ither, an’ I hae wit eneuch to ken whilk I wad tak my eternal chance wi’. Some o’ the presbytery’s guid eneuch men, but haena ower muckle gumption; an’ some o’ them has plenty o’ gumption, but haena ower muckle grace, ta jeedge by the w’y ’at they glower an’ rair, layin’ doon the law as gien the Almichty had been driven to tak coonsel wi’ them. But luik at Sandy Graham! _Ye_ ken whether he has gumption or no; an’ gien he be a stickit minister, he stack by the grace o’ moadesty. But, haith, I winna peety him! for, o’ a’ things, to peety a guid man i’ the richt gate is a fule’s folly. Troth, I’m a hantle mair concernt aboot yersel’, Ma’colm!” Malcolm heard her without apprehension. His cup seemed full, and he never thought that cups sometimes run over. But perhaps he was so far the nearer to a truth: while the cup of blessing may and often does run over, I doubt if the cup of suffering is ever more than filled to the brim. “Onything fresh, mem?” he asked, with the image of Mrs Stewart standing ghastly on the slopes of his imagination. “I wadna be fit to tell ye, laddie, gien ’t warna, as ye ken, ’at the Almichty’s been unco mercifu’ to me i’ the maitter o’ feelin’s. Yer freen’s i’ the Seaton, an’ ower at Scaurnose, _hae_ feelin’s, an’ that’s hoo nane o’ them a’ has pluckit up hert to tell ye o’ the waggin’ o’ slanderous tongues against ye.” “What are they sayin’ noo?” asked Malcolm with considerable indifference. “Naither mair nor less than that ye’re the father o’ an oonborn wean,” answered Miss Horn. “I dinna freely unnerstan’ ye,” returned Malcolm, for the unexpectedness of the disclosure was scarcely to be mastered at once. I shall not put on record the plain form of honest speech whereby she made him at once comprehend the nature of the calumny. He started to his feet, and shouted “Wha daur say that?” so loud that the listening Jean almost fell down the stair. “Wha _sud_ say ’t but the lassie hersel’?” answered Miss Horn simply. “_She_ maun hae the best richt to say wha’s wha.” “It wad better become _ony_body but her,” said Malcolm. “What mean ye there, laddie?” cried Miss Horn, alarmed. “’At nane cud ken sae weel ’s hersel’ it was a damned lee. Wha is she?” “Wha but Meg Partan’s Lizzy!” “Puir lassie! is that it?--Eh, but I’m sorry for her! _She_ never said it was me. An’ whaever said it, surely ye dinna believe ’t o’ me, mem?” “_Me_ believe ’t! Malcolm MacPhail, wull ye daur insult a maiden wuman ’at’s stude clear o’ reproch till she’s lang past the danger o’ ’t? It’s been wi’ unco sma’ diffeeclety, I maun alloo, for I haena been led into ony temptation!”