“She’s a peculiar person, that, Malcolm. Those are nice whitings. I don’t care about the trout. Just take it to her as you go back.” “I doobt gien she’ll take it, mem. She’s an awfu’ vengefu’ cratur, fowk says.” “You remind me, Malcolm,” returned Mrs Courthope, “that I’m not at ease about your grandfather. He is not in a Christian frame of mind at all--and he is an old man too. If we don’t forgive our enemies, you know, the Bible plainly tells us we shall not be forgiven ourselves.” “I’m thinkin’ it was a greater nor the Bible said that, mem,” returned Malcolm, who was an apt pupil of Mr Graham. “But ye’ll be meanin’ Cawmill o’ Glenlyon,” he went on with a smile. “It canna maitter muckle to him whether my gran’father forgie him or no, seein’ he’s been deid this hunner year.” “It’s not Campbell of Glenlyon, it’s your grandfather I am anxious about,” said Mrs Courthope. “Nor is it only Campbell of Glenlyon he’s so fierce against, but all his posterity as well.” “They dinna exist, mem. There’s no sic a bein’ o’ the face o’ the yearth, as a descendant o’ _that_ Glenlyon.” “It makes little difference, I fear,” said Mrs Courthope, who was no bad logician. “The question isn’t whether or not there’s anybody to forgive, but whether Duncan MacPhail is _willing_ to forgive.” “That I do believe he is, mem; though he wad be as sair astonished to hear ’t as ye are yersel’.” “I don’t know what you mean by that, Malcolm.” “I mean, mem, ’at a blin’ man, like my gran’father, canna ken himsel’ richt, seein’ he canna ken ither fowk richt. It’s by kennin’ ither fowk ’at ye come to ken yersel’, mem--isna ’t noo?” “Blindness surely doesn’t prevent a man from knowing other people. He hears them, and he feels them, and indeed has generally more kindness from them because of his affliction.” “Frae some o’ them, mem; but it’s little kin’ness my gran’father has expairienced frae Cawmill o’ Glenlyon, mem.” “And just as little injury, I should suppose,” said Mrs Courthope. “Ye’re wrang there, mem: a murdered mither maun be an unco skaith to oye’s oye (_grandson’s grandson_). But supposin’ ye to be richt, what I say’s to the pint for a’ that. I maun jist explain a wee.-- When I was a laddie at the schule, I was ance tell’t that ane o’ the loons was i’ the wye o’ mockin’ my gran’father. Whan I hard it, I thocht I cud jist rive the hert o’ ’im, an’ set my teeth in ’t, as the Dutch sodger did to the Spainiard. But whan I got a grip o’ ’im, an’ the rascal turned up a frichtit kin’ o’ a dog-like face to me, I jist could _not_ drive my steikit neive (_clenched fist_) intill ’t. Mem, a face is an awfu’ thing! There’s aye something luikin’ oot o’ ’t ’at ye canna do as ye like wi’. But my gran’father never saw a face in ’s life--lat alane Glenlyon’s ’at’s been dirt for sae mony a year. Gien he war luikin’ intill the face o’ that Glenlyon even, I do believe he wad no more drive his durk intill him----”