“Ye may think ay, an’ the laird may think no.”
“Does he think you a freen’, Phemy?” asked Malcolm, in the hope of coming at something by widening the sweep of the conversation.
“Ay, he kens I’m a freen’,” she replied.
“An’ do ye aye ken whaur he is?”
“Na, no aye. He gangs here an’ he gangs there—jist as he likes. It’s whan naebody kens whaur he is, that I ken, an’ gang till him.”
“Is he i’ the hoose?”
“Na, he’s no i’ the hoose.”
“Whaur is he than, Phemy?” said Malcolm coaxingly. “There’s ill fowk aboot ’at’s efter deein’ him an ill turn.”
“The mair need no to tell!” retorted Phemy.
“But I want to tak care ’o ’im. Tell me whaur he is, like a guid lassie, Phemy.”