All the time Blue Peter was careful to say nothing to injure Malcolm in the eyes of his former comrades. His manner when his name was mentioned, however, he could not honestly school to the conveyance of the impression that things were as they had been betwixt them. Folk marked the difference, and it went to swell the general feeling that Malcolm had done ill to forsake a seafaring life for one upon which all fishermen must look down with contempt. Some in the Seaton went so far in their enmity as even to hint at an explanation of his conduct in the truth of the discarded scandal which had laid Lizzy’s child at his door. But amongst them was one who, having wronged him thus, and been convinced of her error, was now so fiercely his partisan as to be ready to wrong the whole town in his defence: that was Meg Partan, properly Mistress Findlay, Lizzy’s mother. Although the daughter had never confessed, the mother had yet arrived at the right conclusion concerning the father of her child--how, she could hardly herself have told, for the conviction had grown by accretion; a sign here and a sign there, impalpable save to maternal sense, had led her to the truth; and now, if anyone had a word to say against Malcolm, he had better not say it in the hearing of the Partaness. One day Blue Peter was walking home from the upper town of Portlossie, not with the lazy gait of the fisherman off work, poised backwards, with hands in trouser-pocket, but stooping care-laden with listless-swinging arms. Thus Meg Partan met him--and of course attributed his dejection to the factor. “Deil ha’e ’im for an upsettin’ rascal ’at hasna pride eneuch to haud him ohn lickit the gentry’s shune! The man maun be fey! I houp he may, an’ I wuss I saw the beerial o’ ’im makin’ for the kirkyaird. It’s nae ill to wuss weel to a’ body ’at wad be left! His nose is turnt twise the colour i’ the last twa month. He’ll be drinkin’ byous. Gien only Ma’colm MacPhail had been at hame to haud him in order!” Peter said nothing, and his silence, to one who spake out whatever came, seemed fuller of restraints and meanings than it was. She challenged it at once. “Noo, what mean ye by sayin’ naething, Peter? Guid kens it’s the warst thing man or woman can say o’ onybody to haud their tongue. It’s a thing I never was blamed wi’ mysel’, an’ I wadna du ’t.” “That’s verra true,” said Peter. “The mair weicht’s intill ’t whan I lay ’t to the door o’ anither,” persisted Meg. “Peter, gien ye ha’e onything again’ my freen’ Ma’colm MacPhail, oot wi’ ’t like a man, an’ no playac’ the gunpoother-plot ower again. Ill wull’s the warst poother ye can lay i’ the boddom o’ ony man’s boat. But say ’at ye like, I s’ uphaud Ma’colm again’ the haill poustie o’ ye. Gien he was but here! I say ’t again, honest laad!”