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.
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