“Hold your tongue, Turkey,” I said, “and let us hear the rest of the story.” But Kirsty kept her eyes on her knitting, and did not resume. “Is that all, Kirsty?” said Allister. Still Kirsty returned no answer. She needed all her force to overcome the anger she was busy stifling. For it would never do for one in her position to lose her temper because of the unbelieving criticism of a herd-boy. It was a curious instance of the electricity flashed out in the confluence of unlike things--the Celtic faith and the Saxon works. For anger is just the electric flash of the mind, and requires to have its conductor of common sense ready at hand. After a few moments she began again as if she had never stopped and no remarks had been made, only her voice trembled a little at first. “Her father came home soon after, in great distress, and there he found her lying just within the door. He saw at once how it was, and his anger was kindled against her lover more than the beast. Not that he had any objection to her going to meet him; for although he was a gentleman and his daughter only a shepherd’s daughter, they were both of the blood of the MacLeods.” This was Kirsty’s own clan. And indeed I have since discovered that the original legend on which her story was founded belongs to the island of Rasay, from which she came. “But why was he angry with the gentleman?” asked Allister. “Because he liked her company better than he loved herself,” said Kirsty. “At least that was what the shepherd said, and that he ought to have seen her safe home. But he didn’t know that MacLeod’s father had threatened to kill him if ever he spoke to the girl again.” “But,” said Allister, “I thought it was about Sir Worm Wymble--not Mr. MacLeod.” “Sure, boy, and am I not going to tell you how he got the new name of him?” returned Kirsty, with an eagerness that showed her fear lest the spirit of inquiry should spread. “He wasn’t Sir Worm Wymble then. His name was--” Here she paused a moment, and looked full at Allister. “His name was Allister--Allister MacLeod.” “Allister!” exclaimed my brother, repeating the name as an incredible coincidence. “Yes, Allister,” said Kirsty. “There’s been many an Allister, and not all of them MacLeods, that did what they ought to do, and didn’t know what fear was. And you’ll be another, my bonnie Allister, I hope,” she added, stroking the boy’s hair. Allister’s face flushed with pleasure. It was long before he asked another question.