“Weel, maybe, gien she bena misguidit by them she’s wi’. But I’m no sae muckle concernt aboot her. Only it’s plain ’at ye ha’e no richt to lead her intill temptation.” “Hoo am I temptin’ at her, mem?” “That’s plain to half an e’e. Ir ye no lattin’ her live believin’ a lee? Ir ye no allooin’ her to gang on as gien she was somebody mair nor mortal, when ye ken she’s nae mair Marchioness o’ Lossie nor ye’re the son o’ auld Duncan MacPhail? Faith, ye ha’e lost trowth gien ye ha’e gaint the warl’ i’ the cheenge o’ forbeirs!” “Mint at naething again’ the deid, mem. My father’s gane till ’s accoont; an it’s weel for him he has his father an’ no his sister to pronoonce upo’ him.” “’Deed ye’re right there, laddie,” said Miss Horn, in a subdued tone. “He’s made it up wi’ my mither afore noo, I’m thinkin’; an’ ony gait, he confesst her his wife an’ me her son afore he dee’d, an’ what mair had he time to du?” “It’s fac’,” returned Miss Horn. “An’ noo luik at yersel’: what yer father confesst wi’ the verra deid thraw o’ a labourin’ speerit, to the whilk naething cud ha’e broucht him but the deid thraws (_death struggles_) o’ the bodily natur’ an’ the fear o’ hell, that same confession ye row up again i’ the cloot o’ secrecy, in place o’ dightin’ wi’ ’t the blot frae the memory o’ ane wha I believe I lo’ed mair as my third cousin nor ye du as yer ain mither!” “There’s no blot upo’ her memory, mem,” returned the youth, “or I wad be markis the morn. There’s never a sowl kens she was mither but kens she was wife--ay, an’ whase wife, tu.” Miss Horn had neither wish nor power to reply, and changed her front. “An’ sae, Ma’colm Colonsay,” she said, “ye ha’e no less nor made up yer min’ to pass yer days in yer ain stable, neither better nor waur than an ostler at the Lossie Airms, an’ that efter a’ ’at I ha’e borne an’ dune to mak a gentleman o’ ye, bairdin’ yer father here like a verra lion in ’s den, an’ garrin’ him confess the thing again’ ilka hair upon the stiff neck o’ ’im? Losh, laddie! it was a pictur to see him stan’in wi’ ’s back to the door like a camstairy (_obstinate_) bullock!” “Haud yer tongue, mem, gien ye please. I canna bide to hear my father spoken o’ like that. For ye see I lo’ed him afore I kent he was ony drap’s blude to me.” “Weel, that’s verra weel; but father an’ mither’s man and wife, an’ ye camna o’ a father alane.” “That’s true, mem, an’ it canna be I sud ever forget yon face ye shawed me i’ the coffin, the bonniest, sairest sicht I ever saw,” returned Malcolm, with a quaver in his voice. “But what for cairry yer thouchts to the deid face o’ her? Ye kent the leevin’ ane weel,” objected Miss Horn. “That’s true, mem; but the deid face maist blottit the leevin’ oot o’ my brain.” “I’m sorry for that.--Eh, laddie, but she was bonny to see!”