"It's a sair thing to be misjeedged," said Malcolm to himself as
he put the demoness in her stall; "but it's no more than the Macker
o' 's pits up wi' ilka hoor o' the day, an' says na a word. Eh,
but God's unco quaiet! Sae lang as he kens till himsel' 'at he's
a' richt, he lats fowk think 'at they like--till he has time to
lat them ken better. Lord, mak' clean my hert within me, an' syne
I'll care little for ony jeedgement but thine."
CHAPTER XXV: THE PSYCHE
It was a lovely day, but Florimel would not ride: Malcolm must go
at once to Mr Lenorme; she would not go out again until she could
have a choice of horses to follow her.
"Your Kelpie is all very well in Richmond Park, and I wish I were
able to ride her myself, Malcolm, but she will never do in London."
His name sounded sweet on her lips, but somehow today, for the first
time since he saw her first, he felt a strange sense of superiority
in his protection of her: could it be because he had that morning
looked unto a higher orb of creation? It mattered little to Malcolm's
generous nature that the voice that issued therefrom had been one
of unjust rebuke.
"Who knows, my lady," he answered his mistress, "but you may ride
her some day! Give her a bit of sugar every time you see her--
on your hand, so that she may take it with her lips, and not catch
your fingers.
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