"What wad ye hae me un'erstan' by that, Miss Horn?" returned Malcolm. "I hear no ill o' her. I daur say she's no jist a sa'nt yet, but that's no to be luikit for in ane o' the breed: they maun a' try the warl' first, ony gait. There's a heap o' fowk — an' no aye the warst, maybe," continued Malcolm, thinking of his father — "'at wull hae their bite o' the aipple afore they spit it oot. But for my leddy sister, she's ower prood ever to disgrace hersel'."
"Weel, maybe, gien she be na misguided by them she's wi'. But I'm no sae muckle concernt aboot her. Only it's plain 'at ye hae no richt to lead her intill temptation."
"Hoo am I temptin' at her, mem?"
"That's plain to half an e'e. Are ye no lattin' her live believin' a lee? Ir ye no allooin' her to gang on as gien she was somebody mair nor mortal, whan ye ken she's nae mair Marchioness o' Lossie nor ye're the son o' auld Duncan MacPhail? Faith, ye hae lost trowth, gien ye hae 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 richt there, laddie!" assented Miss Horn in a subdued tone.
"He's made it up wi' my mither afore noo, I'm thinkin': an', ony gait, he confessed 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 very deid-thraw o' a laborin' speerit — to the whilk naething cud hae 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 clout o' secrecy, in place o' dightin' wi' 't the blot frae the memory o' ane whae 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 hae 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' I hae 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 upo' 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 kenned he was ony drap's blude to me."
"Weel, that's verra weel; but father an' mither's man an' wife, an' ye cam' na 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 kenned the leevin' ane weel," objected Miss Horn.
"That's true, mem, but the deid face maist blotit the leevin' oot o' my brain."
"I'm sorry for that. Eh, laddie, but she was bonny to see!"
"I aye thoucht her the bonniest leddy I ever set e'e upo'. An' dinna think, mem, I'm gauin to forget the deid 'cause I'm mair concernt aboot the leevin'. I tell ye I jist dinna ken what to do. What wi' my father's deein' words, committin' her to my chairge, an' the more than regaird I hae to Leddy Florimel hersel', I'm jist whiles driven to ane mair. Hoo can I tak the verra sunsheen oot o' her life 'at I lo'ed afore I kenned she was my ain sister, an' jist thoucht lang to win near eneuch till to do her ony guid turn worth duin'? An' here I am, her ain half-brither, wi' naething i' my pooer but to scaud the hert o' her, or else lee! Supposin' even she was weel merried first, hoo wad she stan' wi' her man whan he cam to ken 'at she was nae marchioness — hed no lawfu' richt to ony name but her mither's? An' afore that, what richt cud I hae to alloo ony man to merry her ohn kenned the trowth aboot her? Faith! it wad be a fine chance, though, for fin'in' oot whether or no the fallow was fit for her. But we canna mak a playock o' her hert. Puir thing! she luiks doon upo' me frae the tap o' her bonny neck as frae a h'avenly heicht, but I s' lat her ken yet, gien only I can get at the gait o' 't, that I haena come nigh her for naething." He gave a sigh with the words, and a pause followed.
"The trowth's the trowth," resumed Miss Horn, "neither mair nor less."
"Ay," responded Malcolm, "but there's a richt an' a wrang time for the tellin' o' 't. It's no as gien I had had han' or tongue in ony forgane lee. It was naething o' my
